


Harry Potter-Dursley-Evans and that Supremely Surreptitious Stone

by JustASimpleHo



Series: The Adventures of Harry Potter-Dursley-Evans [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BAMF Harry, BAMF Harry Potter, Book 1: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Canon Rewrite, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Good Dudley Dursley, Good Dursley Family (Harry Potter), Good Petunia Dursley, Good Slytherins, Hogwarts First Year, Nice Draco Malfoy, Nice Dursley Family (Harry Potter), Nice Petunia Dursley, Nice Vernon Dursley, Self-Aware Fic, Slightly Self-Aware Fic, Slytherin Harry Potter, Very Very Slight Ron Weasley Bashing, What-If, self-aware
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2020-10-14 13:56:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20601920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustASimpleHo/pseuds/JustASimpleHo
Summary: Why were the Dursleys so mean?Harry’s personality, his actions, his choices, even those in the later books, are all influenced by his upbringing at the Dursley’s horrid household. Had he been raised differently, would he have made the same decisions? Would he still have been on the side of the Light? Would the story of Harry Potter still fundamentally be the same as we know it today?What if the Dursleys were good? And not only good but kind? And raised him right, in a loving household, as he deserved?





	1. Chapter One, Part One: The Timekeeping Device

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picks up right after where "Mr. And Mrs. Dursley-Evans’ Very Extraordinary Morning" ends. It's Darius' birthday, and Harry can't wait to celebrate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See endnotes for the Foreword.

Nearly ten years had passed since Mr. and Mrs. Dursley-Evans had hidden in a rose bush to spy upon Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall – look, it’s a story for another time – and Aspen Avenue had changed quite a bit. It was evident in the way the sun rose on number one’s vegetable garden, which had doubled in size, and now included potatoes, carrots, tomatoes, cherry tomatoes, romaine, arugula, kale, basil, thyme, rosemary, an apple tree, an orange tree, and a strawberry patch. The sunlit up the copper number one on the Dursley’s front door, which had gained a patina of stains and character. The leaves diffused the light that crept into their living room, which had more bookshelves and easels and a baby grand piano now. The sofas were worn, the upholstery faded from use, and the hardwood floors had aged as well, now a dark oak shade.

The photographs on the mantlepiece of the living room only helped to show how much time had passed. Ten years ago, there had been lots of pictures of what looked like a smear of oil paint on canvas, the photographs’ subject moving too fast to be captured. Now, however, Darius Dursley-Evans was no longer a baby, and the photographs showed a less-blurry smear riding his first bicycle with a raven-haired boy, the two of them on a carousel at the fair, playing a computer game together; being hugged and kissed by Mrs. Dursley-Evans.

It was obvious that two boys were living in the home, from the baby pictures, preschool class photos, and family portraits that were all on the mantle. Hung there, as well, was an unfinished family portrait, with three Dursley-Evanses painted in wide, broad strokes, and a baby Harry. But against the portrait’s richly painted tones was a glaring white expanse of canvas, a space where Lily and James Potter were supposed to be painted. The stark white of the empty space was dusty, now, and it looked like the painting would never be completed, instead staying in its unfinished current state for eternity.

Both Harry Potter-Dursley-Evans and Darius Dursley-Evans were still in that home, asleep at the moment, but not for long. Petunia – Harry’s aunt and Darius’ mother – was humming in the kitchen as she cracked four eggs in a pan – _Crr! Crr! Crr! Crr!_ – each of them a perfect circle. The humming reached the boys’ bedroom, and it was the melodic tune of breakfast preparation that was the first sound within the home.  
Harry and Darius woke up slowly, the sound of rashers of bacon sizzling in a pan – _tssssssss – _being added to one of eggs being fried – _shtss!_ Harry heard her walking in the kitchen, whisking together eggs, flour, sugar, milk, butter, baking powder, a pinch of salt, and a teaspoon of vanilla extract, the whisk’s _whokp whokp whokp whokp_ sound in time with her humming. Harry rolled onto his back and tried to remember the dream he had been having before the smell of eggs and bacon awoke him. It had been a good one. There had been a flying motorcycle in it. He had a funny feeling he’d had the same dream before.

His aunt was now pouring the pancake batter into another, third pan, and it was here that she first called out the boys. “Harry! Darius! Breakfast is almost ready!” Harry suddenly straightened his back, rubbed the sleep from his eyes and pulled on a pair of socks. When he was fully dressed he rushed down to the kitchen while Darius fell back into slumber. Aunt Petunia was flipping the first pancake with a spatula in her right hand while simultaneously frying eggs with her left. She worriedly glanced at the second pan on the range, which had several rashers of bacon. She looked like she wanted to grow a third arm to handle _that_, an arm going straight from her abdomen. “Aunt Petunia, I’ll look after the bacon, you really need to focus on those pancakes. And the eggs. Actually, scratch that, I’ll take the bacon and eggs, you deal with the pancakes.”

Aunt Petunia sighed with relief, smiling at her nephew. “What would I ever do without you? You’re like the second son I never had. Ooh, careful there with the bacon, I want it to be perfect on Darius’ birthday.”

Harry stood still in shock, the pans in his hands unmoving as the bacon’s _tssss_ grew in volume and the eggs’ yolk became less and less runny, the _shtss_ turning into a _Ptss! Ptss! Ptss!_ “Harry! The bacon! The eggs! The pancakes! The birthday! The parliament! The queen!” Aunt Petunia began to shriek, snapping Harry from his shock. He quickly transferred the bacon to a plate with a paper towel and gently slid the egg as well onto the plate, as his aunt continued shrieking, “The garden! The pans! The dishes! The paint! The canvas!” while somehow subconsciously managing to slide the pancake onto the plate as well. Harry chuckled lightly to himself at his aunt’s shrieks, until she grabbed both of his arms and shrieked the loudest, “Harry! THE GIFT!!” Harry took that opportunity to grab a rasher of bacon still in the pan and stuck it in Aunt Petunia’s mouth to shut her up. “MumPHuuRtALi-” she muffled out, still shrieking. Finally, with an audible _ungh_, she swallowed the bacon. “My, now that was tasty! Great job, Harry! But whatever shall we do about Darius’ gift?”

“Well, I don’t know about you and Uncle Vernon, but _I_’ve already gotten Darius one,” Harry laughed, pouring more pancake batter into the pan and frying a rasher of bacon in the other.

“Well, it’s not as if we _haven’t_ gotten him a gift – we’ve just forgotten where it is!” she said, exasperated.

“Have you checked under the table?”

Aunt Petunia walked to the dining room, peered under the white linen, and smiled.

“It’s there isn’t it?” Harry called out from the kitchen, not bothering to turn from the trio of pans on the range.

“Yes, Harry. Once again, Aunt Petunia’s lost item is _under the table_.”

Along with Darius’ gift, Aunt Petunia also encountered a tube of lipstick – Mac _Ruby Woo_, the _alt_ key from the family computer, and a single pearl earring which upon closer inspection was one of her great-great-great-grandmother’s prized heirlooms. She sighed, collecting the items in her hands, and placed the gift on the top of the table.

“What would we ever do without you, Harry?” Aunt Petunia smiled, putting on the pearl earring – the other one was on her left ear already.

“Probably lose the entire house under that damned table, if you ask me.”

“We wouldn’t lose the whole house! Just the furniture. And our clothes. And the kitchen. And the- oh well, perhaps we _would_ lose the whole house.”

Harry slid another perfect sunny side up onto another plate along with the bacon and pancakes and grinned at his breakfast. He _was_ rather quite good at cooking, he decided – it was just like chemistry, or as his writer of a science teacher said, _“potion-making”._

“What _is_ it with our family and that table, anyway?” Harry asked, balancing the plate along with three others, bringing them to the dining room.

“Well you see – well you see, first, hand me two of those plates, they’re going to topple,” Aunt Petunia began, before taking the two plates from Harry’s forearms. “Ever since you and Darius used that house as a fort – and a rather _nice_ fort, I might add – as little toddlers, everything we’ve lost or needed has been under that table!” Aunt Petunia whispered conspiratorially, leaning in.

“And ever since then, the magical land of _Fortable_ has _never _been found again,” Harry chuckled, remembering the fort he and Darius had in fact, built, so many years ago. Harry had heard the story many, _many_ times, but it never got old, and it always amused him how _vivid_ Darius’ memories of their land of make-believe.

Aunt Petunia and Harry’s nostalgia was interrupted by a baritone voice melodically making its way down the stairs. “No more talk of darkness; forget these wide-eyed fears, I’m here, nothing can harm you, my words will warm and calm youuuuu!” Uncle Vernon’s voice slowly increased in volume as he entered the dining room, a form-fitting black leotard obvious under his white V-neck and ripped skinny jeans. “No more talk of darkness indeed! What a beautiful breakfast!” Uncle Vernon roared, clapping Harry on the back and kissing Aunt Petunia. “I just hope that the birthday boy will be here in time… I might finish all of this before he even gets out of bed!” he whispered to Harry, who laughed as Aunt Petunia whacked him on the back of his head. “Now there’ll be none of that. It’s the boy’s _birthday_, after all.”

Harry glanced at the large gift-wrapped package on the table, which was no bigger than a shoebox. It looked as though Darius had gotten a new pair of trainers, which by all means was fine, but Harry was secretly hoping he had finally gotten the ukulele he had dropping hints about for months. Harry had seen Darius try playing his father’s electric guitar using only the first four strings and had gotten quite good at it. Harry himself was quite adept at classical piano and violin, but he had yet to try his father’s guitar. Darius, on the other hand, was skilled at playing the piano as well but preferred to perform more contemporary, rock pieces. He also borrowed his father’s aforementioned electric guitar often, and he and Harry would duet, Harry on the violin, performing and singing so loudly that the neighbours would complain if it didn’t sound so great. Harry was hopeful that Darius would receive a ukulele – he would love its sound in harmony with his piano. Needless to say, both he and his brother were very musically inclined, thanks to Vernon Dursley, although Harry didn’t quite look the part of established concert-pianist-singer-violinist-painter.

Perhaps it had something to do with being raised in the Dursleys’ rather eccentric home, but Harry had always looked a bit _wild_ for his age. He looked even stranger because he often chose to wear clothes of his own making, with fabrics he had salvaged from the recycling centre and his and Darius’ old clothes. Harry had a slender face, much like Aunt Petunia’s, but he was recognizable by his high cheekbones, elfin jawline, aquiline nose, and lifted brow bone. He had thin, chapped lips that always seemed to be in a friendly smirk as if to say, _I know more than you, and that makes me better than you, but I’m the kindest person you will ever meet._

Harry had black, unkempt hair, which grew every which way like a thorny rose bush. About once a week, Harry’s teachers would call him to their office and tell him he needed a haircut. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia appealed against this, of course, citing “creative freedom” and “individuality”. On the rare occasion the Dursleys were unable to argue against the teacher, and Harry _did_ get a haircut, it made no difference: his hair simply grew that way, all over the place.

Harry wore round glasses held together with a lot of Scotch tape because of all the times he had fallen asleep reading, resulting in the glasses snapping in half as his head dropped onto the book he would be engrossed in. Aunt Petunia would insist on having them replaced before, but after the bill for new glasses almost exceeded that of the family’s groceries, she gave up.

One of the things Harry liked about his very own appearance was a very thin scar on his forehead that was shaped like a bolt of lightning. He had it as long as he could remember, and the first question he could ever remember asking his Aunt Petunia was how he had gotten it.

“Someone tried to kill you, once, a long time ago,” she had said. “I can’t say his name – names hold power, you know that, Harry – but he was on the other side of a war your parents had fought in. For some reason, you survived his attempt at murder. But you were left with that scar,” she whispered, stroking his hair. Harry believed the story for a few years, along with the other ones she and Uncle Vernon would tell him, but after a few years he realized they were just fairy-tales – dark, intricately-told fairy-tales, but fictional fairy-takes nonetheless - made up by his Aunt and Uncle, designed to hide him from the truth of his parents’ death. He had done his research – there hadn’t been any wars, at least not in the U.K., in the past few decades, anyway.

Harry, Uncle Vernon, and Aunt Petunia had just finished setting the table when Darius arrived in the dining room. He looked a lot like Uncle Vernon, with an angular jawline and cerulean, piercing eyes. He was a bit bigger than Harry, from joining the school’s soccer team, but he also had the same friendly smirk as Harry, although his was much sunnier, saying, _I am kind and trustworthy and loyal and I will defend you, no matter what it takes._ Darius’ hair was the complete opposite of Harry’s, a dirty blonde that was always somehow perfectly coiffed, a trait he obviously inherited from his mother. Aunt Petunia often said he could be a movie star one day, what with his father’s dazzling white smile, and Harry had to agree with her.

“Happy birthday, Darius!” the extended Dursley-Evans family harmoniously greeted Darius. The boy was still dressed in his silk pyjama set, not a crinkle on the fabric nor a hair out of place, which seemed highly unnatural for someone who had just woken up but was perfectly normal behaviour with the blondes of the Dursley-Evans household. “Haaaaaa…” Uncle Vernon’s baritone began, signalling the first note. “Haaaaaapy Birthday to you!” he began, with the bass part of the song. “Happy birthday to you!” Harry and Aunt Petunia joined in, blending the bass with a soprano and alto. “Happy Birthday, Dear Darius!” Now all three were singing, and the three voices were in near-perfect harmony. “Happy Birthday to you!” It was here Darius joined in the last line, adding his tenor voice to the mix. The family had, subconsciously, created a perfect Soprano-Alto-Tenor-Bass chorus of the Happy Birthday song, the tones, and notes of their voices in tune after hours of practice. “Well, that was pretty good, if I do say so myself! Although, Petunia darling, you were a little bit _flat_,” Uncle Vernon cooed at Aunt Petunia. “We both know _you_ were _sharp_, Vernon, and _I_ was perfectly in tune,” she countered, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Can we save the romance for later? It’s my birthday, after all!”

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia separated from their embrace, laughing, as the extended Dursley-Evans family sat down to enjoy their breakfast.

“Darius! Blow out your candles first, sweetie,” Aunt Petunia said, bringing out a stack of 5 pancakes with eleven birthday candles.

“All right, all right mum, don’t worry,” he grumbled, blowing out the candles as Uncle Vernon’s Polaroid camera flashed.

“Perfect shot! This one’s for the mantle!” Uncle Vernon exclaimed, showing everyone the Polaroid.

“Oh, Darius, darling, we do hope you like your present,” Aunt Petunia crooned, gesturing to the shoebox-shaped object in the middle of the table. Uncle Vernon ruffled Darius’ hair as he carefully unwrapped the present, revealing… an _actual_ shoebox.

“A new set of trainers? Well, thanks mum and dad,” Darius smiled, giving Harry a look that said _Are they serious?_

“Well, open them! We can’t wait to see how they look on you!” Uncle Vernon said, winking at Harry.

It was at that moment that Harry realized the _magic_ his Uncle had performed, and he looked at Darius’ slightly pained smile, giving him a smile of his own, albeit one of expectation and hope. Darius gently opened the shoebox, expecting to see a pair of fashionable but unneeded shoes (because God forbid Vernon Dursley-Evans would have his children be caught not _en Vogue_) but was instead elated to find a beautiful varnished bamboo ukulele, with brass hardware and an engraving of his initials, _V.D.E., _on the front.

“A ukulele! It’s just what I wanted!” Darius screeched in awe, standing up and hugging his parents. “Indeed,” Aunt Petunia tittered, “And we’ve gotten it engraved, as well, and the bamboo is responsibly sourced, aiding struggling farmers in Indonesia and the Philippines.”

Harry smiled at his cousin. He had personally been the one to help his Aunt and Uncle pick out the ukulele for Darius. But the surprises weren’t over yet. “Darius? Do you think you’ll only get _one_ gift this year?” Harry smirked mischievously at Darius, hands behind his back. “Well – err… there’s Aunt Marge’s present, right? Mum and Dad probably have it, and Paul is coming over, so maybe he-” Darius’ rambling was cut off as Harry pulled his hands from behind his back, revealing a small box, no bigger than one for an engagement ring. Harry gently placed the box into Darius’ hands. “Open it,” Harry whispered. “I think you’ll quite like it.” Darius, with even more utmost care, gently unwrapped the present, whose wrapping paper proved to be a detailed map of One Aspen Avenue, with all its hiding spots and décor done in full watercolour.

“Harry… the wrapping paper alone… it’s a gift in and in of itself.”

“Well, that’s not the only surprise. Open the box!”

Darius’ was trembling ever so slightly as he opened the box, and within, was a glimmering silver swiss-made mechanical watch with a matching silver Milanese loop; it’s almost silent _tick-tock-tick-tock_ sound filling the air of the dining room. Darius gazed at the watch in awe, which had an almost completely transparent body that showed the inner trappings and workings of the watch, each movement sending at least five gears and seven cogs into motion. “Harry… I can’t accept this… it’s amazing, but… it’s too much.”

Harry pouted at his cousin, obviously irked at his reaction. “Well, come off it now. I spent _six months_ making that watch, I’m not letting it go to waste without you wearing it _at least_ every day,” he complained.

Darius choked on air, sputtering, “You – you – you _made _this_?_” He suddenly put the watch back in the box and the box on the table and backed away, almost as if it was a ticking time bomb.

“Well, of course, I made it. None of the watches in the stores were good enough for my cousin,” Harry sniffed, taking the watch and putting it firmly on Darius’ wrist.

Darius Dursley could only watch in shock as his cousin fiddled with the watch’s Milanese loop to secure it onto his wrist.

“There. Nice and secure. What do you think?”

Darius checked the time on the watch, and chuckled, “It looks like it’s half-past _gorgeous_ if that’s what you’re asking.”

Harry beamed at his cousin, obviously proud of his gift. He loved his cousin, very much, because it was almost as if they were brothers – they were raised together, after all. The six months he’d spent on his cousin’s present – six months of hard labour and research, alongside ordering from musty catalogues for watch repairers, had proved to be worth it in the end.

Or had it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was first inspired to re-enter the Harry Potter fandom when my family vacationed in Osaka –the exact moment was when we went to Universal Studios and entered the Wizarding World of Harry Potter; I instantly fell in love with the franchise and the story and Hogsmeade and Hogwarts all over again. Thus, began my rabid consumption of fanfiction, a thorough scouring of the wiki and Pottermore (of which finally helped me discover my House – Hufflepuff – ) and, when I returned home, a re-reading of the first book of the series.
> 
> I knew what I was getting into when I re-read: yes, Ms. Joanne’s world-building was astounding and simply Apparated one to the Wizarding World, but her fond use of adjectives and adverbs made for a childish voice and style that neither suited the theme (death, loss, and war, as it would be apparent in later books,) but also the audience (Young Adult – they must be reading a more sophisticated form of literature.)
> 
> But that didn’t stop me from feeling like I was right alongside Harry, Hermione and Ron as they solved the puzzle of the Philosopher’s (or Sorcerer’s, as I was reading the American version) stone, and that didn’t stop me from sympathizing with Harry because of one of the major plot devices of the book:
> 
> Why were the Dursleys so mean?
> 
> Having suffered from a form of trauma myself, I quickly recognized that Harry’s personality, his actions, his choices, even those in the later books, were all influenced by his upbringing at the Dursley’s horrid household. Had he been raised differently, would he have made the same decisions? Would he still have been on the side of the Light? Would the story of Harry Potter still fundamentally be the same as we know it today?
> 
> A spark lit within me that day, and a thirst that, like many of you may recognize, sprung up like a well in a dry desert. I needed to see the alternative.
> 
> But the alternative I was seeking, then, wasn’t if Sirius Black hadn’t been wrongfully imprisoned, or the classic if Neville was the Boy-Who-Lived: instead, I wanted to see an alternative reality where the Dursleys, those achingly, bitchingly, nasty relatives of Harry, were good. And not only good but kind. And raised him right, in a loving household, as he deserved.
> 
> I returned to AO3, and FF.net, and scoured the pages for a fic of this nature. I searched high and low, used tags, used exclusions, sorted by hits, by recency…
> 
> Nothing.
> 
> Deeply troubled, I could think of only one thing left to do then:
> 
> I had to write this reality myself.
> 
> And so, it is with great pleasure, my dear reader, that I present to you my current passion project: An alternative reality, a retelling of the Harry Potter series where the Dursleys were good.
> 
> Most, if not all, of my writing, follow the flow and structure of the original text, and split the chapters up to allow for easier reading – don’t be surprised if you find yourself reading lines, or even paragraphs, directly ripped from the book. It is my intention to tell the same story, but to highlight its differences: Ms. Joanne’s writing, while flawed, is a bestseller, after all.
> 
> Harry Potter-Dursley-Evans and that Supremely Surreptitious Stone is my retelling of the first book. You may have noticed that the first chapter is missing - that's because it can be found in Mr. And Mrs. Dursley-Evans’ Very Extraordinary Morning, my prologue/short story that I've published beforehand. The Dursleys in my fic are very OOC, especially Vernon, (he's practically a different character.)
> 
> This is one of the pieces of literature I have spent the most time on in my life – funny, I know, for it to be a fanfiction.
> 
> Now, buckle up the seatbelt on your Ford Anglia, push the necessary buttons to hide from Muggles, and enjoy the ride.


	2. Chapter One, Part Two: The Sound Of A Snake

Just then, the doorbell rang – “Oh, looks like they’re here! – Aunt Petunia said – and a moment later, Darius and Harry’s best friend, Paul Paxton, walked in with his mother. He was an athletic boy, often playing football in his free time, and had a kind face, like one of some saints in a religious fresco. He was usually the one who gave third-party feedback on the two cousins’ art, writing, music, or other endeavours. Darius subconsciously hid his left wrist behind his back as soon as he entered the home.

Paul and his mother were quickly ushered into the dining room where two more dining chairs were pulled up and a plate of pancakes back and eggs were placed in front of them both. “Are you excited, Paul?” asked Darius, a piece of bacon in between the tines of his fork. “Of course!” Paul replied. “I’m always excited for your birthday.”

Every year on Darius’ birthday, his parents took him, Harry, and a friend out to a “cultural excursion” – to adventure parks (“It’s good to know the entertainment of the masses,” was Uncle Vernon’s excuse,) Gordon Ramsey’s hamburger restaurants, or vintage movie screenings. “I do hope Paul will find this year’s excursion to his satisfaction, Mrs. Paxton,” Harry said cordially. “Oh, my dear Harry, your family’s excursions have always wonderful, you needn’t worry about such things,” she replied with a smile.

Half an hour later, after the Dursley-Evans and Paxtons had finished their breakfast, cleaned up the dining table, and Paul had sheepishly given Darius his gift – a beautiful new set of acrylic paints – Harry was sitting in the back of the Dursley-Evans’ car with Paul and Darius, on the way to the zoo. His Aunt and Uncle had taken Harry and Darius to the zoo before, but they had been too young to remember. Before they’d left, Uncle Vernon pulled out an old photo album with a picture of a baby Harry and Darius being carried by Aunt Petunia in front of the lion’s enclosure, a huge grin on her face. Uncle Vernon, under the pretence of showing the photo to Harry, had whispered into his ear, “Let’s hope nothing strange happens on this trip, eh?” Uncle Vernon’s smile was warm, but his eyes were worried.

The problem was, strange things often happened around Harry – stranger than the things that usually happened to the Dursley-Evans family, anyway – and it was just no good trying to find an explanation for most of it.

Once, Aunt Petunia, tired of the complaints from teachers and Harry coming back from the barbers looking as though he hadn’t been at all, had taken a pair of kitchen scissors and cut his hair so short you’d have thought he was aspiring to enlist in the military. Darius had tried to conceal his laughter from Harry, who spent a fitful night imagining school the next day, where his friends would surely poke fun at his new hairstyle. Next morning, however, he had gotten up to find his hair exactly as it had been before Aunt Petunia had sheared it off. Aunt Petunia simply shook her head and laughed with Harry, because there was simply _no explanation_ for how it had grown back so quickly.

Another time, Aunt Petunia had been trying to dress Harry and Darius in revolting brown sweaters with orange puff balls – they were fresh off Louis Vuitton’s runway, she said, and were very _in_ – and while Darius was now clad in the hideous garment, the harder she tried to pull the sweater over Harry’s head, the smaller it seemed to become, until finally it might have fitted a hand puppet, but certainly wouldn’t fit Harry. The three of them had all given bewildered looks to each other before Darius sneakily removed the sweater and both sweaters were never seen again.

On the other hand, one place Harry _was_ seen often was the roof of the school kitchens. The first time it had happened, Darius and Harry had been passing couplets in Shakespearean iambic pentameter during class, when a teacher had caught the two boys and immediately launched into a lecture on the virtue of _listening_ to the teacher in class, until she herself read the couplets and was very surprised at the boys’ ability. Afraid of getting in trouble – he had already been told off for his hair, _again_ – Harry, with a loud _Pop! _found himself to his surprise as anyone else’s sitting on the chimney. The Dursley-Evans had received a very angry letter from Harry’s headmistress telling them Harry had been climbing school buildings, even though the whole class had seen Harry simply _disappear _into thin air. Uncle Vernon, of course, ever the thespian, sent back _his_ own very angry letter stating that if his nephew was to have the desire to scale a building, he should have the right to do so, and the school should be proud of his efforts, at that. The administration was so shocked at such a turn of events that the matter was simply all but forgotten, Harry now a legend in his school.

But today, nothing was going to go wrong. Harry was very much excited to return to the zoo, to see the snakes and lions and ravens and badgers.

While he drove, Uncle Vernon told stories to Aunt Petunia and the children. He liked to tell stories about anything and everything: people at work, Harry’s parents, the council, _Les Misérables,_ the theatre, and West End were just a few of his favourite topics. This morning, it was motorcycles.

“And I was roaring along like a maniac, just like a young hoodlum,” he chuckled, as a motorcycle overtook them.

“I had a dream about a motorcycle,” said Harry, remembering suddenly. “It was flying.”

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia gasped, a sudden memory of being entangled in rose bushes coming back to them all at once. He turned right around and whispered at Harry, his face frozen in shock, like an immortalized victim of Pompeii: “You remember that?”

The three boys in the backseat all gave each other quizzical looks.

“Remember what?” asked Harry. “It was only a dream.”

“My dear boy…I’ve told you and Darius this story many times, and every time, I expect you to trust me. It sounds absolutely bonkers – and that’s a lot, coming from me – but you remember every time I’ve told you about the man with the cigarette lighter, the professor tabby cat, and _of course_, the giant carrying you from the sky in a flying motorcycle!”

Paul gaped at Uncle Vernon, unsure if he was pulling a prank or not. Harry and Darius simply gave each other a _look_, as if to say, _well, here he goes again._

It wasn’t that Harry and Darius didn’t _want_ to believe him – if anything, they _wanted_ it to be true – but the idea of Harry’s parents dying at the hands of an _evil wizard_ and Harry being delivered to the Dursley-Evans household by a trio of _professors at a wizarding school_? It was simply too preposterous, too out-of-this-world to be believable.

Uncle Vernon knew better than to push the subject further and to spare the mind of poor Paul, who looked like he was sick, from any more damage. The rest of the car ride was filled with silence, but in just a few minutes time, they had arrived at the zoo.

It was a very sunny Saturday and the zoo was crowded with families. The Dursley-Evans had bought Darius, Paul, and Harry large chocolate ice creams at the entrance, and the three of them were licking the sides of their waffle cones to catch the streams of liquid sugar dripping from the melting treat. It was quite tasty, Harry thought, as he remarked to Darius that the smiling chimpanzee scratching its head looked quite a bit like him, before Darius had sneered at him and said that the baboon in the next enclosure reminded him quite a bit of Harry, himself.

Harry and Darius had the best morning they’d had in a long time. He made sure to walk next to Uncle Vernon, who seemed to know a lot about the animals in the zoo and knew things that even the information plaques didn’t talk about. They ate in the zoo restaurant, where Uncle Vernon gave a stern word to the manager when Darius, Harry, and Paul’s knickerbocker glory arrived and didn’t have enough ice cream on top. The manager gave them another one, for free, and Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia fed it to each other in between flirtatious giggles.

Harry, felt, afterward, that he should have known it was all too _normal_.

After lunch they went to the reptile house. It was cool and dark in there, with lit windows all along the walls. Behind the glass, all sorts of lizards and snakes were crawling and slithering over bits of wood and stone. The three boys were curious to see if the zoo had any huge, poisonous cobras or thick, man-crushing pythons. They slowly made their way throughout the exhibit, Uncle Vernon’s running commentary guiding them along the way, until they found the largest snake in the place. It could have wrapped its body twice around Uncle Vernon’s car and crushed it into a trash can – but at the moment it didn’t look in the mood. In fact, it was fast asleep.

The three boys stood with their noses pressed against the glass, staring at the snake’s glistening brown coils.

“Pity it’s not awake,” Darius remarked. Uncle Vernon pointed to a sign that said _DO NOT TAP THE GLASS_ and shrugged his shoulders. “Majestic creatures, they are,” he remarked. “Usually only found across the pond, in South America.”

Paul and the Dursley-Evans shuffled away from the snake, but Harry lingered on for a bit. He moved in front of the tank and looked intently at the snake. He wouldn’t have been surprised if it had spent _all_ its days sleeping – nothing to do inside that box all day except watch people disobey the sign, drum their fingers against the glass and try to disturb it all day long. He couldn’t imagine a life like that – one without art, without music, without books, or even just the freedom to go where he wanted to.

The snake suddenly opened its beady eyes. Slowly, very slowly, it raised its head until its eyes were on a level with Harry’s.

_It winked._

Harry stared. Then he quickly looked around to see if anyone was watching. They weren’t. He looked back at the snake and winked, too.

The snake jerked its head toward Uncle Vernon and Darius, then raised its eyes to the ceiling. It gave Harry a look as if to say:

_“Your brother seemssss quite nice.”_

“Oh, he’s not my brother. He’s my cousin,” Harry murmured through the glass, though he was pretty sure the snake didn’t understand him. “But I’ve lived with him my whole life; he could pass for my brother if he needed to.”

The snake nodded vigorously.

“Where do you come from, anyway?” Harry asked.

The snake jabbed its tail at a little sign next to the glass. Harry peered at it.

** _ Boa Constrictor, Brazil_ **

_Just like Uncle Vernon said,_ Harry thought. “Was it nice there?”

The boa constrictor jabbed its tail at the sign again and Harry read on: **_This specimen was bred in captivity._** “Oh, I see – so you’ve never been to Brazil?”

As the snake shook its head, it appeared that someone had approached Harry behind him. “Wicked,” Paul whispered. “It’s almost as if you’re talking to it. Darius! _Psst! _Mr. Dursley-Evans! Come and look at this snake! You won’t _believe_ what it’s doing!” he whisper-shouted.

Darius took long, sure strides towards the tank, sceptical but interested to see what had happened.

“Woah. That’s bloody brilliant,” he whispered to Harry, as the snake began to flit its eyes back and forth between the three boys. _“Sssso, thisss isss your cousssin? I’m very pleasssed to have met him. And who isss thisss lovely fellow with you?’ _the snake seemed to hiss at Harry, now beginning to uncoil fully.

“This is my friend, Paul Paxton,” Harry murmured through the glass. “He’s always wanted to see a Boa Constrictor, this is the first time that-”

“Harry. Are you _hissing_ at the snake?” Darius had begun to step away from the tank, his horrified expression a mirror of Paul’s.

“Am I- am I _what?_” Harry giggled nervously, thinking Paul and Darius were pulling his leg.

“You were _hissing_ at the snake. I swear it,” Paul gulped, taking a deep breath.

“I was only murmuring to it! In the Queen’s _English_, I’m not _hissing _at it or anything dodgy like that. And the snake says he’s very pleased to meet you, anyway,” Harry sniffed at Darius, defensive.

_“You _were_ hisssssing at me, dear boy,”_ the snake said, now fully uncoiled and peering at Harry through the glass. _“You’re the firssst one who’sss _hissssed_ properly to me; everyone elssse seemsss to be sssaying gibberish.”_

“I am _not_ hissing at you!” Harry hissed. But all at once, almost as if he’d taken off a pair of earmuffs, he heard himself. And instead of the usual phonemes and vowel sounds a human would usually make, he found himself thinking of Aunt Petunia’s rashers of bacon that morning, all _hasurasurashasa_ like he was making the sound of something being fried in a pan. He looked at Darius and Paul in horror, exclaiming, “I _was_ hissing at the snake!” Paul and Darius had calmed down quite a bit by then, and to Harry’s surprise, Darius whispered, “Well, go on then. _I_ personally think it’s brill you’re able to talk to snakes,” he whispered excitedly. “Now you’ve got a third language, aside from English and French.” Harry’s eyes widened in surprise and he turned back to the tank, where the snake was still peering at Harry ever so curiously.

“What do you need?” he asked.

The snake coiled upon itself once more, adopting a wistful gaze as it looked at the wall mural next to him, painted to appear like a Brazilian forest. _“It’sss not what I need, dear boy. It’sss what I want.”_ Harry gave an uneasy look to Darius and Paul, and asked the snake again, “Well, what is it you _do_ want?” The snake uncoiled again and looked Harry straight in the eyes, and hissed, _“I yearn to be free.”_ Harry was so moved by the snake’s display of emotion that what came next happened so fast no one saw how it happened – one second, Paul and Darius were leaning right up close to the glass, listening to Harry’s hissing exchange with the snake, the next, they had lept back with quiet howls of horror.

Harry took a step back as well and gasped; the glass front of the boa constrictor’s tank had vanished. The great snake was now rapidly uncoiling itself to its fullest length, slithering out onto the floor. People throughout the reptile house, however, had not noticed the snake as it silently slithered down the edge of the reptile house towards the exit.

As the snake slid swiftly past him, Harry heard its low, hissing voice say, _“Brazzzil, here I come… Thanksss, amigo.”_

The trio of boys slowly made their way towards Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, who were peering at a small tank that appeared to have nothing inside of it, but in fact contained a chameleon standing incredibly still. “Uncle Vernon?” Harry approached, nervous. “We may have – er, there’s no easy way to explain this, really – we may have set free a snake.” “You may have _what?_” Uncle Vernon replied incredulously, whipping his head around. “See, Harry can talk to snakes! And, well, the one he was talking to wanted to be free, and-”

“OH, MY GOODNESS, WHERE IS THE BOA CONSTRICTOR?”

A shrill voice rang out through the whole reptile house, and Uncle Vernon brought a hand to his forehead, rubbing his temple as he sighed, “Out of all the snakes in the reptile house… you had to talk to the _boa constrictor_.” Harry offered his uncle a sheepish smile as people throughout the reptile house screamed and started running for the exits. Aunt Petunia took hold of Paul and Darius’ hands and led the way, Uncle Vernon and Harry chasing her tail as they finally stepped into the sunshine and away from the reptile house. The five of them seemed to be the only ones who came out unshaken from the ordeal; even the keeper of the reptile house was in shock. “But the glass,” he kept saying, “where did the glass go?”

The zoo director himself offered all of those who were inside during the incident cups of strong, sweet tea as he personally apologized over and over again and assured that the boa constrictor was safely back in captivity (although Harry could tell from his shifty eyes and sweaty hands that it wasn’t.) A lot of the zoo-goers could only gibber, some even saying that the boa had nearly bitten off their leg, or that it tried to squeeze them to death. But as far as Harry had seen, the snake hadn’t done anything except snap playfully at their heels as it passed.

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia brought Paul home before starting on Harry. They were both so exasperated they could barely speak. Aunt Petunia managed to say, “So – not only did you inherit magical powers from my dear sister and brother-in-law, but you can also talk to _snakes?_ Did _Lily_ ever talk to snakes? Heavens knows.” She ran away to get a large brandy for Uncle Vernon, who had collapsed into a chair.

Dinner was a slightly quiet affair. Aunt Petunia made Darius a birthday pot roast – “It still is your birthday, darling” – and Darius and Harry ate in near silence as they listened to all of Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia’s stories of Harry’s parents again – this time, of course, digesting every single word along with their pot roast after the incident at the zoo. The pot roast, with seasoned potatoes on the side, was quickly finished and replaced by scoops of vanilla ice cream, which was licked up before it melted, until finally, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had finished telling all the stories by the time the extended Dursley-Evans family finished all the washing up.

Harry lay in his moonlit room much later, after having brushed his teeth, taking a shower, and saying good night to his Aunt and Uncle. He’d lived with the Dursley-Evans almost ten years, ten wonderful years, as long as he could remember, ever since he’d been a baby and his parents had – apparently – been killed by a “Dark wizard.” The official story, the one Aunt Petunia told friends and relatives, was that his parents had died in a car crash; and for the longest time, Harry had chosen to believe that, refusing to accept the “truth” presented to him by his Aunt and Uncle. But he suspected now that although his parents may have not been killed by a “Dark wizard” – whatever that was – they _definitely_ didn’t die in a car crash – and besides, he couldn’t remember being in the car when his parents had died. Sometimes, instead, when he strained his memory during long hours of sleepless nights thinking about his parents, he came up with a strange vision: a blinding flash of green light and a burning pain on his forehead. This, he wanted to believe, was the crash, but if that was the case, then he couldn’t imagine where all the green light came from; therefore, it _mustn’t_ have been a car crash. He couldn’t remember his parents at all. His Aunt and Uncle always spoke about them, of course, he could ask all the questions he wanted, and there were a few photographs of them in the house, but there was a limit even to their stories and the faded colors of the pictures he so cherished.

When he had been younger, Harry had dreamed and dreamed of some unknown relation on his father’s side to come visit him, to explain the _truth _to him, but it had never happened; the Dursleys were his only family. Yet sometimes he thought (or maybe hoped) that strangers in the street seemed to know him. Very intriguing strangers, they were, too, not unlike some of Uncle Vernon’s thespian friends. A tiny man in a velvet top hat had bowed to him once while out shopping with Aunt Petunia and Darius. After asking Harry worriedly if he knew the man, Aunt Petunia simply shook her head and sighed. A wild-looking old woman dressed all in green had waved merrily at him once on a bus. A bald man in a very long purple coat had actually shaken his hand in the street the other day and then walked away without a word. The weirdest thing about all these people was the way they seemed to vanish the second Harry tried to get a closer look.

At school, at least, Harry had some friends. Everyone loved odd Harry Potter with his creative genius and broken glasses, and nobody could disagree with his art otherwise.

But that didn’t stop him from _wondering._


	3. Chapter Two, Part One: The Tabby Cat's Visit

The escape of the Brazilian boa constrictor caused a large amount of tension within the Dursley-Evans household. By the time the atmosphere had settled down back to normal, the summer holidays had started, and Harry and Darius had mastered Beethoven’s _Fur Elise_ on both the piano and violin, read, studied, and analysed their way through Shakespeare’s _Richard III_ and the first part of _Henry VI_, and mastered how to set up and solve systems of equations.

Harry was glad school was over, and there was no escaping his and Darius’ friends, anyway; they visited the house every single day. Paul, Dennis, Malcolm, and Gordon were all creative intellectuals, but as Harry was the most creative and most intellectual of the lot, he served as almost their leader.

Sometimes, though, a “_sensitive_ artist” such as Harry needed time alone, and so he would spend some time out of the house, wandering around and thinking about the end of the holidays, where he could see a tiny ray of melancholy. When September came he would be going off to secondary school and, for the first time in his life, he wouldn’t be with Darius. Darius had been accepted at Uncle Vernon’s old school, Westminster, on a combined Music Scholarship and Bursary. Paul Paxton was going there too. Harry didn’t see why he wasn’t; he was pretty sure he could easily impress whomever was behind the scholarship program.

One day in July, Aunt Petunia took Darius to London to buy him new clothes. Later that evening, Darius was made to parade around the living room for the family in his brand-new uniform. Westminster Under School students wore a grey pullover with trim in burgundy, the school colour, short sleeve grey polo with the School Crest embroidered on the chest, grey trousers, grey socks, black shoes, and, to finish it all off, a silver-and-burgundy necktie.

As he looked at Darius in his new outfit, Uncle Vernon said that this would be the second-proudest moment of his life (the other would be when Darius would move to Eton College.) Aunt Petunia burst into tears and said she couldn’t believe it was her little Darius, he looked so handsome and grown-up. Harry was proud for his cousin but couldn’t trust himself to speak. He just didn’t understand why _he_ couldn’t be parading in a grey uniform as well.

The next morning started like any other for the Dursley-Evans family. There was the delicious smell of Aunt Petunia’s cooking in the kitchen when Harry went in for breakfast. She was deftly folding an omelette onto itself by the stove, its aroma wafting through the entire home. He went to have a look. The omelette was a bright dandelion with large flecks of translucent white onion, green and red pepper, and gooey cheese in the centre.

“That looks nice,” he said to Aunt Petunia. Her lips curled in a smile as they always did whenever he complimented her cooking.

“I’m glad you like it,” she replied, taking a sip from her morning coffee.

Harry looked in the pan again.

“Oh,” he said, “I didn’t realize it was so big.”

“That’s fine,” Aunt Petunia said. “You can share it with Darius.”

“_You can share it with Darius,” _Harry thought. Just once Harry wanted something of his own. He loved his cousin dearly, and he knew his Aunt and Uncle loved Harry as well, but sometimes he couldn’t help from feeling that he always had to _share_ with Darius. Sure, he _was _their child and it was a _blessing_ Harry was with such wonderful adoptive parents, but he wanted _something_ of his own, something that _wasn’t_ Uncle Vernon’s silly stories about his parents. Something only, _he_ had. Something _real._

Darius and Uncle Vernon came in, both sighing at the smell of Aunt Petunia’s omelette. Uncle Vernon opened his newspaper as usual and Darius continued reading his book; today it was _The Great Gatsby _by F. Scott Fitzgerald.

They heard the _drrriiing_ of the doorbell and the simultaneous flop of letters on the doormat.

“Get the mail, Darius,” said Uncle Vernon from behind the paper.

Darius put down his book and went to get the mail. Two things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon’s sister Marge, who was vacationing on the Isle of Wight and a brown envelope that looked like a bill.

Darius started walking back to the kitchen when the _drrriiing_ sounded again. Confused, he opened the door to One Aspen Avenue, and, before he could close the door, a tabby cat with black markings around its eyes bounded into the Dursley-Evans household.

“Dad! There’s a tabby cat that’s run into our home!” Darius shrieked, almost dropping the postcard and bill.

“A tabby cat? How very curious,” Uncle Vernon replied, not looking up from his newspaper.

The tabby cat had made its way to the kitchen, where it leapt onto the kitchen counter and began staring at Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia with a critical look. Harry shrieked at the sight of the cat as well; sometimes his Aunt would pet cats whom had wandered into her garden, but she never let them _inside_ the house.

Uncle Vernon finally put down his paper, frowning at the shrieking he heard. His eyes settled on the tabby cat, who was staring right at him, before he broke out into a smile. “Professor! It’s been too long! Is it time already? My, it only seems like yesterday that Petunia and I were spying on you from the rose bushes,” he chuckled, standing up from the table. The cat peered at Uncle Vernon, obvious distaste in its sharp eyes. Harry had no idea why his Uncle Vernon was rambling on about Lord-knows-what when there was a _stray cat_ in the home.

Aunt Petunia had put down her cooking to avoid any cat hair cross-contamination and greeted the tabby as well. “Forgive my husband, Professor McGonagall. We’re so happy to have you here in our home,” she smiled.

Darius had run into the kitchen as soon as he heard Harry’s near identical shriek and had witnessed the whole encounter between his two parents and the stray tabby. Harry and Darius gave each other a look as if to say, _Are they being serious?_ Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were known to be absolutely daft at times, but _talking to a cat_? It seemed a step too far.

Harry, however, was also running a number of scenarios in his head: Uncle Vernon had mentioned _rose bushes_, and Aunt Petunia had mentioned the name _Professor McGonagall_, and it all seemed too much like their stories to be true. He thought then, that they must be playing a prank, yes, they had hired a trained cat to rush into their home to scare both Harry and Darius and to give themselves a good laugh. Yes, that must be it, Harry thought, because the stories _couldn’t_ be true, there was no way _ever_ that they were.

Uncle Vernon stepped back from the cat, who had scrunched its face slightly. It hopped off from the kitchen counter, but instead of the tabby cat on the floor, there was a tall, rather severe-looking woman wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had around its eyes with an emerald cloak and black hair drawn into a tight bun. She had a very stern face, and Harry's first thought, surprisingly, was that this was not someone to cross.

“Yes, Vernon, it is time,” she said regally. “And you must be Harry,” she smiled softly, turning to him.

Harry James Potter-Dursley-Evans subsequently fainted.


	4. Chapter Two, Part Two: The Deputy Headmistress

Harry had awoken in Number One Aspen Avenue’s living room from a strange dream. He dreamt that Darius had gotten the mail only for a tabby cat to run into the house, eliciting an impossible reaction from his Aunt and Uncle, after which the cat promptly turned into a woman wearing an emerald cloak. Harry looked around the room, trying to gather his bearings, when he noticed Aunt Petunia sitting worriedly in one of the armchairs, Uncle Vernon pacing the floor nervously, and Darius sitting in another armchair, trying to concentrate on his book but instead constantly glancing at-

Oh.

_Oh._

Sitting directly across him on one of the sofas was the tabby cat. It seemed to peer at Harry annoyedly, as if it hadn’t been expecting him to pass out. It _wasn’t_ all a dream then, Harry thought to himself, looking at the carpet on the floor. Just the part when the-

Harry shrieked for the second time that morning.

While he had been deep in thought, looking at the carpet, the tabby cat had disappeared and had been replaced by the same woman from his dreams.

“Please do stop your shrieking, Mr. Potter. It’s the third time I’ve heard anything of the sort this morning,” she sighed, glancing at Darius, who began blushing pink.

“It… it wasn’t all a dream, then?” Harry croaked, still in shock.

“I’m afraid not,” Uncle Vernon replied with an edgy grin.

“Who… who are you?” Harry asked the woman, standing up.

“I do believe your Uncle has told you this before, Harry. I’m Professor McGonagall.”

“Professor McGonagall? Fr-From the stories?” Harry turned to Uncle Vernon, his face paling.

“What does he mean by stories, Vernon?” asked professor McGonagall, smoothing the front of her Verdigris cloak.

“Er- Well, here’s the thing, Professor,” Uncle Vernon started, speaking slowly. “We’ve told Harry all about your world, all about his parents, even the night he was brought to us-” It was here Professor McGonagall peered at Uncle Vernon – “but, well, as he grew older, he thought we were joking, thought we were telling…” – Uncle Vernon swallowed – “_fairy tales._”

Professor McGonagall’s eyes bulged at that statement. “_Fairy tales?_” she said incredulously, turning to Harry. “You defeated one of the greatest Dark wizards of all time, your father and mother _sacrificed_ their lives for you, you’re the last remaining descendant of one of the oldest and most powerful wizarding families, and you think that all of that are just _fairy tales?_”

Harry gulped. Obviously, he was either still dreaming, or this was one of Uncle Vernon’s method actor friends visiting.

“Well, it’s not like I’ve any _proof_ that they _aren’t_ fairy tales,” Harry replied timidly. He was still unsure of the state of his consciousness and pinched the back of his hand to make sure – nope, _definitely _awake. “Professor” McGonagall – if that was even her real name – was another method actor then.

“Was my transformation from cat to human to cat to human again not enough for you?” she whispered angrily, her right hand clenched in the pocket of her emerald robe.

Harry blinked. “Special effects?” he reasoned.

“Oh, I’ll show you special effects, all right,” Professor McGonagall sighed. “See that chair behind you? No strings above it, correct? Nothing behind it to lift it up? Nothing _underneath_ either?” Harry nodded, checking all around the chair to play along with the method actress.

“Now. Watch _very carefully_, because as you’ve said, there is _nothing_ out of the ordinary with the chair.” Taking her hand from her pocket, she held a long, slender piece of wood, coughed once, and chanted, “_Wingardium Leviosa.”_

Harry felt very faint once more as he watched the chair behind him simply _lift_ into the air, Professor McGonagall’s stick seemingly controlling its movements. He walked all around the chair, even going as so far as to walk underneath it, and saw that there were, in fact, no strings, no handles, no concealed platforms, _nothing_ to support the chair from lazily floating its way to Professor McGonagall, who lowered the stick and promptly sat in the said chair.

“_Now,_ do you really think _that_ was a fairy tale?” she said smugly, bringing the stick back into her pocket.

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia broke the silence with a roaring sound of applause. Harry and Darius joined in as well, until the four of them were cheering for Professor McGonagall, who was looking a bit flustered, now.

“That was AMAZING!” Darius roared, ending his applause. “When will _I_ learn to do that?” he squealed.

“Your cousin Harry, I’m afraid, will be the one learning ‘how to do that.’ Rest assured, however, as he’ll have plenty of stories to tell over the summer and Yule holidays,” Professor McGonagall smiled. “And 7 years from now, once he is of age, he’ll be able to perform magic outside of school,” she added, hoping to appease the young blonde.

“Oh. I see. That’s perfectly fine. I wouldn’t want to miss _Westminster School,_ anyways,” Darius replied, waggling his eyebrows ever so slightly.

Professor McGonagall, however, was not impressed. There was no other wizarding school in Great Britain besides hers – and even if there were, it wouldn’t be as good, anyway.

Harry, however, was _extremely_ ecstatic. If _Darius_ wasn’t going to learn how to do that, then _he _was. He would _finally_ have something of his own, something that he wasn’t just _better_ at, but something only _he_ could do.

“Professor?” asked Harry, still a little bit shy but excitement seeping through his tone. “_Where_ exactly will I learn _that_? I don’t suppose there might be a school for it? With extremely high admission fees? Uncle Vernon makes enough just fine as a thespian, but even Darius here has had to apply for scholarships and bursaries, which I’m pretty sure I could easily get, but, oh, I’m terribly sorry for speaking so much-”

Harry closed his mouth, a blush spreading across his cheeks, but Professor McGonagall simply smiled and pulled out an envelope from one of the pockets of her robes and handed it to Harry.

Mr. H. Potter-Dursley-Evans

Just Another Boy’s Room

1 Aspen Avenue

Big Grathis

Surrey

The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the address was written in emerald-green ink. There was no stamp.

Turning the envelope over, his hands trembling, Harry saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter _H. _Harry slid his fingernail under the wax seal, removing it with an almost surgical precision. He wanted everything to be intact. Taking a deep breath, he gently shook the envelope to deposit the letter in his hand, unfolded very carefully, and read:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL_ of_ WITCHCRAFT _and _WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

_(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confederation of Wizards)_

Dear Mr. Potter-Dursley-Evans,

A head of House should have been the one to give you this letter, if you are reading this and are _not_ Mr. Potter-Dursley-Evans, please burn this letter immediately to avoid losing sensation in your fingers, toes, ears, nose, lips, tongue, eyebrows, and bellybutton. If you _are_ Mr. Potter-Dursley-Evans but _do not_ have a head of House present with you, kindly crumple this letter, place it back in the envelope, and soak in water until one does appear.

If you are still reading this, it means that you _are _Mr. Potter-Dursley-Evans and _do _have a head of House present with you.

We are pleased to inform you that you are a wizard.

You have thus have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Your chaperone head of House has already debriefed you and your family, and you will find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment for your reference during your shopping excursion with your chaperone head of House.

Term begins at September 1. Please be at King’s Cross Station Platform 9 at no later than 9:30 a.m. for the Trolley Tutorial. Otherwise, you may have to be Obliviated and expelled before the term has even started.

  
Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall,

_Deputy Headmistress_

Questions exploded inside Harry’s head like fireworks and he couldn’t decide which one to ask first. He knew, however, to first get the obvious one out of the way: “You’re the Deputy Headmistress? Oh, I _am_ so _terribly_ sorry for speaking to you in such a _terrible_ way, I was just so flustered by all the cat-turning and the chair-lifting that I didn’t think _for once_ to mind my manners,” Harry stammered, cheeks flushing even more.

“That’s quite all right, Harry. It’s the regular reaction expected from most Muggle-born wizards – or Muggle-raised, in this case,” she smiled. “In fact, in all my years at Hogwarts, you’ve displayed the most polite and well-mannered reaction to hearing the news. You should be quite proud of yourself.”

Harry beamed at Professor McGonagall, who smiled again and turned to the Dursley-Evans. “Now, we’ll need to go shopping for Harry’s school supplies. Do you have anybody to leave Darius with?”

“I’m not coming with you?” Darius asked, glum.

“I’m afraid not. Muggles aren’t allowed to know about the wizarding world, and of those who do, only the parents and direct family of Muggle-borns can know of it,” she droned, almost as if from a script memorized after years of dealing with petulant siblings, cousins, and best mates.

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia looked at one another. They hadn’t any reason to separate the two boys before – they did everything together. “We do suppose we could leave him with Mrs. Figg…” Aunt Petunia trailed off, not thinking of any better options.

“But I don’t _want_ to stay at Mrs. Figg’s!” Darius cried out. “She’s a mad old lady whose whole house smells of lettuce!”

“Now, Darius, what did we say about being _politely_ honest about people? Besides, her house smells of _cabbage_, not lettuce.”

Harry was barely listening to Darius’ complaints, however, and was instead bouncing on the heels of his feet. He was so happy he felt as though a large balloon was swelling inside him. “Oh, let’s go, let’s go!” he shouted, clearly excited. “We can drop off Darius on the way to – well, where exactly _are_ we going, Professor McGonagall?”

The deputy headmistress allowed herself a small smile, relieved that the whole ordeal with the Dursley-Evans had gone relatively smoothly. “Like I said, we’re going to get your school supplies.”

“We’re going to Diagon Alley.”


	5. Chapter Three, Part One: A Journey Through The Underground

Mrs. Figg, as it turned out, was exactly as bad as Darius had said she was, and not only did her _house_ smell strongly of cabbage, but _she_ did as well. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had no qualms whatsoever at all about bringing him along for the ride, but Professor McGonagall _insisted_ he stay behind. Harry, on the other hand, who was secretly overjoyed at the prospect of having something _all for himself_, had no problem with this whatsoever.

“Well! Now that that’s settled, we’ll need to make our way into London. Mr. Dursley, I don’t suppose your family has a car?” Professor McGonagall asked, after they had dropped Darius off at Mrs. Figg’s. “What use would we have for a car? The U.K.’s got one of the best public transportation systems in the world, and Gaea knows how sick the cars make her,” Uncle Vernon said in reply.

Indeed, as Professor McGonagall looked around the Dursley-Evans’ garage, it appeared to have been converted into a multipurpose area, looking like a greenhouse, music studio, motorcycle display, winery, brewery, jam-making-station, at-home-mason-jar canning facility, and miniature library, all at once. She had never seen such a room in her whole life, not even at Hogwarts, and she was awfully amazed at how much was crammed in one garage while it remained spacious, airy, and aesthetically pleasing. “What about the motorcycle, then?” she said, pointing to Uncle Vernon’s Harley-Davidson. “Doesn’t that pollute the atmosphere, too?” Uncle Vernon walked over to another contraption that had _corn_ in it and said, “Runs on biofuel! Modified it myself, too. No emissions, one hundred percent clean, green, renewable energy,” he said, patting the biofuel converter lovingly. _Add that to the list of things this room is. Looks like the Room of Requirement’s got some competition,_ Professor McGonagall thought.

“Professor?” Harry asked, as she continued gawking at the garage-turned-greenhouse-music-studio-motorcycle-display-winery-brewery-jam-making-station-canning-facility-miniature-library-biofuel-converter. “It’s been wonderful to tour you around the house and all, but shouldn’t we be going?”

She snapped out of her reverie and straightened out her robes. “Yes, yes. Well, if we aren’t taking a car, how do you suggest we get to London?”

“Easy!” Aunt Petunia chirped. “We’ll take the London Underground!”

It was Professor McGonagall’s first time using the Underground, and it was, in a word, _shocking._ Strangely enough though, passerby didn’t even cast a glance at her as they walked through Big Grathis to the station. Harry knew this was because they assumed she was just another one of Uncle Vernon’s theatre friends. She unknowingly yet perfectly played the part of a method actor, however, as she couldn’t resist pointing at perfectly ordinary things like parking meters and asking, “What’s that? What’s that do? Why do you have that?” Harry was happy to answer all her questions, though, seeing as she (also unknowingly) answered many of his.

Then they reached the station. There was a train to London in five minutes’ time. Professor McGonagall peered curiously at Uncle Vernon as he paid with “Muggle money,” as she called it, to buy tickets for the four of them.

Harry was looking at Uncle Vernon’s money when he had just remembered something that made him feel as though the happy balloon that had been swelling inside of him since he had read the letter had gotten a puncture by a very big, sharp, needle.

“Professor McGonagall?”

“Yes, Harry?” said the woman, still peering at Uncle Vernon’s “Muggle money.”

“Uncle Vernon makes more than enough to support his family, and me, but _I_ haven’t got any money… and I’m sure the school fees are very high for Hogwarts…”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Professor McGonagall, looking away from the British pounds. “Did you really think your parents didn’t leave you anything?”

“But if their house was destroyed-”

“Who keeps their gold in their house?” Professor McGonagall laughed. “Tell me, Harry, if not in his – what’s the word? Ah, yes, _wallet – _if not in his wallet, where does your Uncle Vernon keep his money?”

Harry felt all at once very stupid and very relieved. “The bank!” he exclaimed. “Of _course,_ _wizards_ would have banks.”

“There’s just the one, actually. Gringotts. It’s run by goblins.”

Harry nearly dropped his train ticket.

_“Goblins?”_

“Yes, of course – anyone would be mad to try and rob it. _Never_ mess with goblins, Harry. Gringotts is the second safest place in the world for anything you want to keep safe.”

“What’s the first?”

“Hogwarts, of course!”

Just then, the bell sounded and the _whoosh_ of the Underground rang in the ears of the Dursley-Evans and Professor McGonagall as the train itself _whoosh-_ed into the station. The four of them got on board. “Can you bring out your letter, Harry?” asked Professor McGonagall as she took a seat. Harry took the parchment envelope out of his pocket.

“Very well. There’s a list of everything you’ll need.”

Harry unfolded a second piece of paper he hadn’t noticed a while ago, and read:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL _of _WITCHCRAFT_ and _WIZARDRY

UNIFORM

First-year students will require:

  1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)
  2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear
  3. One pair protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)
  4. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)

Please note that all pupil’s clothes should carry name tags

COURSE BOOKS

All students should have a copy of each of the following:

_The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) _by Miranda Goshawk

_A History of Magic_ by Bathilda Bagshot

_Magical Theory_ by Adalbert Waffling

_A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration_ by Emeric Switch

_One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi _by Phyllida Spore

_Magical Draughts and Potions_ by Arsenius Jigger

_Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ by Newt Scamander

_The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_ by Quentin Trimble

OTHER EQUIPMENT

1 wand

1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)

1 set glass or crystal phials

1 telescope

1 brass scales

Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS

“Can we buy all this in… diagonally?” Harry wondered aloud.

“It’s _Diagon Alley_,” said Professor McGonagall, “and yes, of course.”

Harry had been to London plenty of times before. Although Professor McGonagall seemed to know where she was going, she was obviously not used to getting there in an ordinary way. Her robes got stuck in the ticket barrier on the Underground, and she grumbled under her breath that the seats were too hard and the trains too slow.

“I don’t know how you Muggles manage without magic,” she said as they climbed a broken-down escalator that led up to a bustling road lined with shops.

Professor McGonagall stayed right behind Uncle Vernon, who was tall and big enough to part the crowd for the four of them. She would say things to him like, “Yes – straight ahead.” or “Just a little bit to the right.” Harry and Aunt Petunia kept close behind the two of them. They passed book shops and music stores, hamburger restaurants and cinemas, but nowhere that looked as if it could sell you a magic wand. This was just an ordinary street full of ordinary people. Could there really be piles of wizard gold buried beneath them? Were there really shops that sold spell books and broomsticks? Might this not all be some joke that Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had cooked up? If Harry hadn’t seen Professor McGonagall levitate that chair toward her, he might have thought so; yet somehow, even though the stories about his parents and everything she had told him so far was unbelievable, Harry couldn’t help trusting her.

“This is it,” said Professor McGonagall, tapping Uncle Vernon’s shoulder. “the Leaky Cauldron. It’s a famous place.”

It was a tiny, grubby-looking pub. If Professor McGonagall hadn’t pointed it out, Harry wouldn’t have noticed it was there. The people hurrying by didn’t glance at it. Their eyes slid from the big book shop on one side to the record shop on the other as if they couldn’t see the Leaky Cauldron at all. In fact, Harry saw Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia struggling to see its façade. Before he could mention this, Professor McGonagall ushered the three of them inside.

For a famous place, it was very dark and shabby. A few old women were sitting in a corner, drinking tiny glasses of sherry. One of them was smoking a long pipe. A little man in a top hat was talking to the old bartender, who was quite bald and looked like a toothless walnut. The low buzz of chatter stopped when they walked in. Everyone seemed to know Professor McGonagall; they waved and smiled at her, and the bartender reached for a glass, saying, “Greetings, Professor. Fancy some pumpkin juice?”

“Not today, Tom. I’m doing Muggle-born orientation,” said Professor McGonagall, gesturing to the Dursley-Evans couple who had begun gawking at anything and everything around them.

“Very well. I guess I’ll see you some other time then.” Tom smiled, “Don’t be afraid to – Merlin’s beard – is this – can this be - ?”

The Leaky Cauldron had suddenly gone completely still and silent.

“Bless my soul,” whispered the old bartender, “Harry Potter… what an honour.”

He hurried out from behind the bar, rushed toward Harry and seized his hand, tears in his eyes.

“Welcome back, Mr. Potter, welcome back!”

Harry didn’t know what to say. But he had to get something straight. “It’s actually Mr. Potter-_Dursley-Evans_, thank you,” he said, gesturing to his adoptive parents. Everyone who was looking at him shifted their gaze to the nervously smiling couple. The old woman with the pipe was puffing on it without realizing it had gone out. Professor McGonagall stood exasperated, as if she _knew_ this was going to happen.

Then there was a great scraping of chairs and the next moment, Harry found himself shaking hands with everyone in the Leaky Cauldron.

“Doris Crockford, Mr. Potter, can’t believe I’m meeting you at last.”

“So proud, Mr. Potter, I’m just so proud.”

“Always wanted to shake your hand – I’m all of a flutter.”

“Delighted, Mr. Potter, just can’t tell you, Diggle’s the name, Dedalus Diggle.”

_“Excuse me!”_ yelled Harry, stunning everyone into silence once more. “I thought I clarified already – if you aren’t going to call me Harry, then _don’t _call me _just_ Mr. Potter. It’s disrespectful to my adoptive parents.” He took a deep breath, summoning all his willpower. “And for the record, while I’m _very flattered_ at the reaction I’ve seemed to elicit from all of you, I _don’t _want to be known for something I did as a _baby_. I’d like to make my _own name_, thank you very much. I don’t know what exactly happened, or why in the Queen’s name _I_ of all people defeated Voldemort” – and here many flinched – “but I _do know_ that a man is defined not by what he _can_ do for others, but by what he _has_ done for others.” Harry slumped down in the barstool behind him. Suddenly the idea of a tall glass of pumpkin juice – whatever _that_ was – sounded very appealing.

A slow clap broke the silence at first, coming from Uncle Vernon. It was soon joined by Aunt Petunia, who had tears in her eyes. Soon enough, Professor McGonagall started clapping, too, as did Tom the bartender, Doris Crockford, Dedalus Diggle, and everyone else until the whole Leaky Cauldron was applauding and cheering for Harry. He found himself shaking hands once more, again and again – Doris Crockford kept coming back for more.

When the applause and cheering had died down, a pale young man made his way forward, very nervously. One of his eyes was twitching.

“Professor Quirrell!” said Professor McGonagall. “Fancy seeing you here. Harry, Professor Quirrell will be one of your teachers at Hogwarts.”

“Mr. P-P-Potter-D-D-Dursley-E-E-Evans,” stammered Professor Quirrell, grasping Harry’s hand, “th-that w-was quite an i-inspiring speech.”

“Thank you, Professor. What sort of magic do you teach?”

“D-Defence Against the D-D-Dark Arts,” muttered Professor Quirrell, as though he’d rather not think about it. He laughed nervously. “You’ll be g-getting all your equipment, I suppose? I’ve g-got to p-pick up a new b-book on vampires, m-myself.” He looked terrified at the very thought.

“Vampires!” exclaimed Harry. “How very intriguing!”

“Well, m-maybe we c-could discuss i-it at a later t-time,” Professor Quirrell smiled.

But the others wouldn’t let Professor Quirrell keep Harry to himself. It took almost ten minutes to get away from them all. At last, Professor McGonagall managed to make herself heard over the babble.

“We must get on, everybody – Harry still has to undergo the proper Muggle-born orientation. Come on, Vernon, Petunia. Harry!”

Doris Crockford shook Harry’s hand one last time, and Professor McGonagall led them through the bar and out into a small, walled courtyard, where there was nothing, but a trash can and a few weeds.

Professor McGonagall took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

“Well, that was _quite_ the ordeal. Thank Merlin we’ve escaped.”

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia looked a bit ruffled up themselves, as they had been bombarded with questions on how it was like being _Muggles_ raising the _Boy-Who-Lived_.

Professor McGonagall pulled out her stick – _wand, _Harry thought to himself_,_ _it’s not just a stick _– and tapped the wall three times with its point.

The brick he had touched quivered – it wriggled – in the middle, a small hole appeared – it grew wider and wider – a second later they were facing an archway onto a cobbled street that twisted and turned out of sight.

“Welcome,” said Professor McGonagall, “to Diagon Alley.”


	6. Chapter Three, Part Two: Diagon Alley

Professor McGonagall smiled at the Dursley-Evans’ amazement as they stepped through the archway. The three of them looked quickly over their shoulder and saw the archway shrink instantly back into a solid wall.

The sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons outside the nearest shop. _Cauldrons – All Sizes – Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver – Self-Stirring – Collapsible_, said a sign hanging over them.

“Yes, you’ll be needing a cauldron,” said Professor McGonagall, “but we’ve got to go to Gringotts first.”

The Dursley-Evans wished they had eight more eyes, each. They turned their heads in every direction as they walked up the street, trying to look at everything at once: the shops, the things outside them, the people doing their shopping. A plump woman outside an Apothecary was shaking her head as they passed, saying, “Dragon liver, sixteen Sickles an ounce, they’re mad…”

Harry took out his Polaroid camera and began taking pictures. _Snap!_ Went the camera shutter every 10 seconds, as fast as he could go, and he balanced as many pictures as he could on his arms as precariously as a mother of octuplets tending to her children; as soon as a picture was fully developed, he would stash it away in a Ziploc in his leather messenger bag.

A low soft hooting came from a dark shop with a sign saying _Eeylops Owl Emporium – Tawny, Screech, Barn, Brown, and Snowy_. _Snap!_ Several boys of about Harry’s age had their noses pressed against a window with broomsticks in it. “Look,” Harry heard one of them say, “the new Nimbus Two Thousand – fastest ever – ” There were shops selling robes, (_Snap_!) shops selling telescopes and strange silver instruments Harry had never seen before, (_Snap!) _windows stacked with barrels of bat spleens and eels’ eyes, (_Snap!) _tottering piles of spell books, quills, and rolls of parchment, (_Snap!) _potion bottles, globes of the moon… _Snap!_ Went Harry’s camera.

“We’re here,” announced Professor McGonagall.

They had reached a snowy white building that towered over the other little shops. Standing beside its burnished bronze doors, wearing a uniform of scarlet and gold, was –

“Is that a _goblin?”_ asked Uncle Vernon quietly as they walked up the white stone steps toward him. The goblin was about a head shorter than Harry. He had a swarthy, clever face, a pointed beard and, Harry noticed, very long fingers. He bowed as they walked inside. Now they were facing a second pair of doors, silver this time, with words engraved upon them:

_Enter, stranger, but take heed_

_Of what awaits the sin of greed,_

_For those who take, but do not earn,_

_Must pay most dearly in their turn._

_So, if you seek beneath our floors_

_A treasure that was never yours, _

_Thief, you have been warned, beware_

_Of finding more than treasure there!_

“You would be mad to try and rob it,” Harry whispered to himself.

A pair of goblins bowed them through the silver doors and they were in a vast marble hall. About a hundred more goblins were sitting on high stools behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins in brass scales, examining precious stones through eyeglasses. There were too many doors to count leading off the hall, and yet more goblins were showing people in and out of these. The Dursley-Evanses followed Professor McGonagall as she made for the counter.

“Good morning,” greeted Professor McGonagall to a free goblin. “We’ve come to make a withdrawal from Mr. Harry James Potter-Dursley-Evans’ safe.”

“You have his key, ma’am?”

“Yes,” she said, as she retrieved it from a hidden pocket in her robes. She held up a tiny golden key as the Dursley-Evanses watched the goblin on their right weighing a pile of rubies as big as glowing coals.

The goblin looked at the key closely.

“That seems to be in order.”

"I also have a letter from here from Professor Dumbledore," said Professor McGonagall in barely a whisper. "It's about the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen."

The goblin read the letter very carefully.

“Very well. I will have someone take you down to both vaults. Griphook!”

Griphook was yet another goblin. Professor McGonagall and the Dursley-Evans followed him toward one of the doors leading off the hall.

"What's the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen?" Harry asked.

“You weren’t supposed to hear that,” said Professor McGonagall sternly. “It’s very secret, Hogwarts business.”

Harry gulped.

Griphook held the door open for them. The Dursley-Evanses, who were expecting more marble, were surprised. They were in a narrow stone passageway lit with flaming torches. It sloped steeply downward and there were little railway tracks on the floor. Griphook whistled and a medium-sized cart came hurtling up the tracks toward them. They climbed in – Uncle Vernon with some difficulty – and were off.

At first, they just hurtled through a maze of twisting passages. Harry knew it was pointless to remember the way – at this velocity and at the rate of turns the cart made, it would be near-impossible to memorize the lefts, rights, and middle forks of the route. The rattling cart, itself, seemed to know its own way – Griphook wasn’t steering.

Harry and Uncle Vernon’s eyes stung as the cold air rushed past them, but he kept them wide open. Uncle Vernon let out a huge yell and lifted his arms in the air, and Harry did the same as well. Their shouts only seemed to get louder with each turn and fork the cart made, and Aunt Petunia took out her hair tie, her blonde waves flying in the air effortlessly like a surfer conquering a huge wave. Professor McGonagall and Griphook gave each other a look, as if to say, _Muggles!_

“Harry!” Uncle Vernon roared, as the cart teetered to the left. “What’s the difference between a stalagmite and a stalactite?”

“Well, one of them has got an _m_ in it,” Harry chuckled, as Aunt Petunia rolled her eyes. “But stalagmites, etymology Greek; _stalagma, _meaning _a drop, _are mounds or tapering columns rising from floors of caves, formed from calcium salts deposited by dripping water and often uniting with a stalactite.” Professor McGonagall blinked, not caring that the cold air fogged up her glasses. She only understood about 5 words of what Harry said.

“Stala_ctite_s, on the other hand,” Harry continued, “again, etymology Greek; _stalassein_, meaning _to drip_, are tapering structures hanging like icicles from roofs of caves, formed in the same manner.” This time, Professor McGonagall just shook her head. It seemed that Harry James Potter-_Dursley-Evans_ would never fail to surprise her.

The cart finally stopped at last beside a small door in the passage wall. Aunt Petunia laughed and ruffled her hair, which instead of being disheveled by the wind, seemed to have been blow-dried if anything.

Griphook unlocked the door. A lot of green smoke came billowing out, and as it cleared, Harry, Aunt Petunia, and Uncle Vernon gasped. Inside were mounds of gold coins. Columns of silver. Heaps of little bronze Knuts.

“Do you know what this means?” Harry whispered, barely audible under his breath.

Professor McGonagall groaned inwardly. She had been preparing herself for this part, the part when Harry would list each and everything he would buy with the absurd amount of money he had come across; the part where she had to force Harry off the path of corruption and greed.

Harry turned to his aunt and uncle, a spark alight in his eyes. “We can eradicate world hunger!”

Once again, Professor McGonagall had been rendered speechless. She certainly hadn’t been expecting _that_ – although considering the day’s events, it seemed she should have.

“We’ll take this wealth and invest 75% percent of it, that way, we’ll start with more capital,” Harry continued, peering at a golden Galleon. “Then, we’ll take that money and use it to fund research for new food technologies, dismantle large, abusive farming corporations, and educate farmers on modern irrigation and fertilization techniques. That’s only the beginning, of course, we’ll need to end food waste too and increase support for GMOs, but the fact that we _can_ do it, that it _can_ be done – it’s amazing!”

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat and smiled sheepishly at Harry. Never before in her life had she encountered someone so _passionate_ to do good, someone, who, when faced with the option to squander a fortune bequeathed onto them, would rather use it for justice. “Well, Harry, that does sound _quite_ grand, but, unfortunately, you’ll need to… er… finish your schooling first.” She murmured, struggling to find an excuse for not having Harry affect change _now._

“Oh but of course! Magic will only help us achieve our goal! I’m sure wizards have developed their _own_ farming technologies, and there _must_ be multiplication spells, and if I’m to learn them all, then I can do _even more._”

“Well, for your reference, the gold ones are Galleons," Professor McGonagall. "Seventeen silver Sickles equals one Galleon and twenty-nine Knuts equal one Sickle.”

It was at that moment that Harry snapped out of his trance and counted out 50 Galleons, 100 Sickles, and 200 Knuts, piling them the coins into a bag Griphook provided.

“All right then. That’s settled,” Uncle Vernon boomed. “Say, Mr. Griphook, sir, is it possible that cart of yours can go any _faster_?”

Griphook’s already-chalky face paled even further. “One speed only,” he whispered under his breath.

They were going even deeper now and gathering speed. The air became colder and colder as they hurtled around tight corners. They went rattling over an underground ravine, and Harry, Aunt Petunia, and Uncle Vernon leaned over the side to try to see what was down at the dark bottom.

Vault seven hundred and thirteen had no keyhole.

“Stand back,” said Griphook importantly. He stroked the door gently with one of his long fingers and it simply melted away.

“If anyone but a Gringotts goblin tried that, they'd be sucked through the door and trapped in there,” said Griphook.

“How often do you check to see if anyone's inside?” Harry asked.

“About once every ten years,” said Griphook with a rather nasty grin.

Something really extraordinary had to be inside this top security vault, Harry was sure, and he leaned forward eagerly, expecting to see fabulous jewels at the very least – but at first, he thought it was empty. Then he noticed a grubby little package wrapped up in brown paper lying on the floor. Professor McGonagall picked it up and touched her wand to it, muttering something under her breath. It shrank to the size of a small coin and she put it in her pocket. Harry longed to know what it was but knew better than to ask.

One wild cart ride later they stood blinking in the sunlight outside Gringotts. Harry didn’t know where to run first now that he had a bag full of money.

“Well, we might as well get your uniform,” said Professor McGonagall, nodding towards _Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions_.

“Listen, Harry, d’you mind if I and your Aunt Petunia go off for a bit and explore? There’s so much to see here!” Uncle Vernon exclaimed.

“No! Not at all! Just because _I_ have to do some school shopping doesn’t mean _you_ have to tag along the whole ride,” Harry replied.

“Well, you can’t just leave them _alone_, Harry!” Professor McGonagall snapped. “They’re _Muggles!_ They aren’t even supposed to _be here_!”

“Go with them, then,” replied Harry plainly. “I’ll be fine getting my robes by myself.”

Aunt Petunia let out a squeal of delight and dragged Professor McGonagall into the nearest storefront before she could say anything.

Harry entered Madam Malkin’s shop alone, feeling quite nervous. He was old – and on-trend – enough to go shopping for his own clothes, but these weren’t just _clothes_, they were a _uniform, _and this wasn’t just a _uniform_, it was a _robe_.

Madam Malkin was a squat, smiling witch dressed in all mauve.

“Hogwarts, dear?” she asked when Harry started to speak. “Got the lot here – another young man being fitted up just now, in fact.”

In the back of the shop, a boy with a pale, pointed face was standing on a footstool while a second witch pinned up his long black robes. Madam Malkin stood Harry on a stool next to him, slipped a long robe over his head, and began to pin it to the right length.

“Hello,” greeted the boy. “Hogwarts, too?”

“Yes,” said Harry.

“My father’s next door buying my books and Mother’s up the street looking at wands,” said the boy. He had a bored, drawling voice. “Then I’m going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don’t see why the first years can’t have their own. I think I’ll bully Father into getting me one and I’ll smuggle it in somehow.”

“It’s more of a safety issue if anything,” Harry replied, not knowing what _on earth_ the boy was talking about but not wanting to sound stupid. “_You_, certainly, know how to use a racing broom, but if _you_ had one, then your friends would want one, too, and who’s to say _they_ know how to use one? And if they _aren’t_ allowed one, because they don’t know how to _use_ it, then they would just get jealous.”

“Huh. I never really thought of it that way… Have _you _got your own broom?” the boy countered.

“Not yet,” said Harry.

“Play Quidditch at all?”

“No,” said Harry, wondering what on earth Quidditch could be. “I’m more of a football guy, myself.”

“_Football_? The _Muggle_ sport? How very odd!” The boy exclaimed. “Well, _I_ play Quidditch – Father says it’s a crime if I’m not picked to play for my house and I must say, I agree. Know what House you’ll be in yet?”

Harry struggled to remember Uncle Vernon’s stories – Hogwarts had these things had Houses, he was told, and you got Sorted, and there was a lot of mumbo jumbo, but he couldn’t recall the exact details. He decided to go with the safest answer.

“No, but no one _really_ knows until they get there, do they?”

“I… I suppose not… But I _know_ I’ll be in Slytherin, all our family has been – imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?”

“And give up my spot at one of the best wizarding schools in Europe? I think not,” Harry said smugly, cracking open the flaws in the boy’s logic like an egg.

The boy stood with his mouth open for a bit, unable to say anything. “I say, look at that couple!” said the boy suddenly, deciding to change the topic. He nodded towards the front window, where Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were grinning at Harry and pointing at two large ice creams to show they couldn’t come in.

“Oh, that’s my Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon,” said Harry.

“Where are your parents?” the boy murmured, uninterested.

“They’re dead,” said Harry shortly. He didn’t feel much like going into the matter with this boy – or anyone.

“Oh, sorry,” said the other, not sounding sorry at all. “But they were _our _kind, weren’t they? Judging by our conversation, you seem to know _everything_ about the wizarding world. What’s your surname, anyway?”

Harry assumed that the boy meant that he thought his parents were a witch and a wizard, because what other explanation could there possibly be? “I have three, actually. Potter-Dursley-Evans. _Harry_ Potter-Dursley-Evans,” he replied, lifting the sleeve of his right arm to shake hands with the boy.

_“Harry Potter?” _the drawling boy asked incredulously. “_The_ Harry Potter?”

For the first time since their conversation had started, Harry noticed just how incredibly _silly_ the boy looked. With his uncut robes hanging off his shoulders like a large, cumbersome blanket, and the way the rest of the fabric pooled around the base of the _very_ tall stool he was standing on, to the look of pure shock and surprise that was now plastered across his face, Harry realized that he was just a _child_ – just like him. No amount of bored drawl or other-worldly knowledge would distract from that fact.

“Why it’s such an honour to _finally_ meet you, I mean, I’ve read all about you from the books, of course, but to actually get to _know _you – it’s amazing!” he beamed, shaking Harry’s right hand, not unlike a crazed Beatles fan at a concert. “I’m Draco, by the way. Draco Malfoy.”

“Nice to meet you, Draco. Although I do hope you would use my other last names…” Harry murmured, gently smiling at the boy.

“Oh… where did they come from? What do they mean? Which side of the family? Are those _Mug_\- Oh but I’m terribly sorry for asking so many questions, how _rude_ of me!”

Well. He certainly hadn’t been expecting _this_. He hadn’t been expecting to make a _friend._ Sure, the boy seemed prejudiced and prone to rash decisions, but then again, who _wasn’t_? Even _Darius_, of all people, could be sometimes.

Before either of them could say anything else, though, Madam Malkin said, “That’s you done, my dear,” and Harry, almost sad to have an excuse to stop talking to the boy, hopped down from the footstool.

“Well, I’ll see you at Hogwarts!” Draco said brightly, bringing up an arm to wave at Harry.

“Goodbye, Draco,” replied Harry, as he stumbled out of the store with two bags full of freshly-tailored robes. Did he want to see him again? Maybe. Harry was still so unsure of Draco, of Diagon Alley – of everything, really, that had to do with the Wizarding World. But maybe, in time, he too would learn more, and be sure. Maybe, in time, he could even learn to fit in, as he did before.


	7. Chapter Three, Part Three: Deeper Into The Alley

Harry was very animated as he ate the ice cream his Aunt Petunia had bought him (chocolate and raspberry with chopped nuts).

“And at first, he seemed quite mean, but then he was so excited to meet me, which seems understandable, and he was quite judgemental, but then again, who _isn’t_?” slobbered Harry, as he licked melted ice cream off his hand.

Harry, Aunt Petunia, and Uncle Vernon met up with Professor McGonagall at a store that sold parchment and quills. The three of them were quite confused when Professor McGonagall ushered them inside.

“Why don’t you just use a ballpoint pen, Professor?” asked Harry, as he peered at a bottle of ink that “_changed colour as you wrote!_”

“A _what_?”

“A ballpen. Here, I always have one with me,” Harry replied, pulling out a slender tube of plastic from his leather messenger bag. He approached a piece of trial parchment and began writing on it.

“What on earth _is that?_”

Harry looked quite annoyed. “I _told you_, it’s a ballpen!”

“But when do you redip it in ink?”

“What? _Never_, of course! You just keep writing and writing and writing until this part _inside _runs out of ink, then you can _replace_ it.”

For the nth time that day, Professor McGonagall was at yet _another_ loss for words.

“Is it fine if I skip on writing with these… quills? I’ve got plenty of pens at home. Pencils too.”

Professor McGonagall didn’t even want to _know_ what a _pencil_ was. “I- I suppose… you can just buy the parchment, then,” she said curtly.

They bought Harry’s school books in a shop called Flourish and Blotts where the shelves were stacked to the ceiling with books as large as paving stones bound in leather; books the size of postage stamps in covers of silk; books full of peculiar symbols and a few books with nothing in them at all. Harry almost wished Darius was here to see all of these books – but then again, he remembered that this was something that was _his_ and _his alone_. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were equally enamoured with all the books on display, and Uncle Vernon, who could read Ancient Greek, had to be stopped by Professor McGonagall before he summoned a _dryad_ from an ancient spellbook. In the end, Harry got five more books, _Muggles Who Notice_ by Blenheim Stalk, a book about Muggles noticing elements of the Wizarding World, _My Life as A Muggle _by Daisy Hookum, an autobiography about a witch giving up magic for a year, _Modern Magical History, The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, _and _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century_. Harry was nearly running out of the film for his camera at that point, and he had already brought five refill cartridges with him.

Professor McGonagall had to practically drag Harry and his adoptive parents away from Flourish and Blotts – _You’ll have plenty of time to explore, some other time – _and moved on to the next shop, where Harry got a pewter cauldron, a nice set of scales for weighing potion ingredients, and a collapsible brass telescope. Then they visited the Apothecary, which was so fascinating Harry almost didn’t notice its horrible smell, a mixture of bad eggs and rotted cabbages. Barrels of slimy stuff stood on the floor; jars of herbs, dried roots, and bright powders lined the walls; bundles of feathers, strings of fangs, and snarled claws hung from the ceiling. While Professor McGonagall asked the man behind the counter for a supply of some basic potion ingredients for Harry, Aunt Petunia examined silver unicorn horns at twenty-one Galleons each while Uncle Vernon looked at minuscule, glittery-black beetle eyes (five Knuts a scoop).

“Excuse me,” asked Harry, calling the shopkeeper’s attention, “These unicorn hairs are _gorgeous_, but what exactly are they _used _for?”

“Potions, my boy, what else? Most specifically the _Wiggenweld _Potion_.”_

“And what does that do?”

“’ Tis a healing potion with the power to awaken a person from a magically-induced sleep,” the shopkeeper said gravely, “Which is why they’re _very_ expensive.”

Harry shuddered and looked away. But in the Apothecary, the only people left were him and the shopkeeper. He looked around a shelf of Phoenix feathers, but nobody was there. He checked outside the shop. Curiously enough, huddled in a tight circle, were Professor McGonagall and his Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. They appeared to be whispering quietly, and Uncle Vernon kept on making wild hand movements and gestures that made passer-by look at them strangely. “Uncle Vernon? Aunt Petunia? Whatever are you doing?” Harry asked, cocking his head.

Aunt Petunia shrieked in a very un-Aunt-Petunia way and quickly jumped out of the circle. “Nothing, Harry! Nothing at all!” she chirruped, glancing nervously at Professor McGonagall.

“Yes, yes – it was trivial, really, nothing that needs to be repeated, now, let’s check your list-” Professor McGonagall rambled on, trying to change the subject. “-Oh. It appears there’s only one item left. Your wand.”

Harry quickly forgot all about his aunt and uncle huddled in a tight circle as soon as Professor McGonagall had mentioned his wand. A _wand_! It seemed like something out of a fairy-tale! A swish, a flick, and he could- oh he couldn’t even begin to _fathom_ what he could do! Make things fly, like Professor McGonagall? Make glass disappear as he’d done at the zoo?

“Well? What are we waiting for? Let’s go, then!”

“All right. Now, Harry, there’s only one place in England to buy a wand – Ollivanders.”

The last shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over the door read _Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 __B.C._ A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window.

For some reason, Harry felt like it was the wrong place to take pictures.

A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped inside. It was a tiny place, empty except for a single, spindly chair that Professor McGonagall offered Aunt Petunia to sit on to wait. Harry felt strangely as though he had entered a very strict library; not unlike those he wasn’t allowed in unless he was with his Uncle Vernon; and he swallowed a lot of new questions that had just occurred to him and looked instead at the thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the ceiling. For some reason, the back of his neck prickled. The very dust and silence in here seemed to tingle with some secret magic.

“Good afternoon,” said a soft voice. He slowly turned around, until he saw an old man standing before them, wild, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop.

“Good afternoon,” Harry replied politely.

“Ah, yes,” said the man. “Yes, yes. I thought I’d be seeing you soon. Harry Potter.” It wasn’t a question. “You have your mother’s eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work.”

Mr. Ollivander – or at least Harry assumed he was Mr. Ollivander – moved closer to Harry. He wondered if he was wearing contacts – the tint of his irises seemed too perfect to be real.

Harry cleared his throat, startling Mr. Ollivander. “It’s Harry Potter-_Dursley-Evans_, actually, Mr. Ollivander, sir,” he said sternly, staring him straight in those moonlit eyes of his.

“Ah. Right. Yes. Well, of course… Your father, on the other hand, favoured a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favoured it – it’s really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course.”

Mr. Ollivander had come so close that he and Harry were almost nose to nose. Harry could see himself reflected in those misty eyes.

“And that’s where…”

Mr. Ollivander touched the lightning scar on Harry’s forehead with a long, white finger.

“I’m sorry to say I sold the wand that did it,” he said softly. “Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands… well, if I’d known what that wand was going out into the world to do…”

He shook his head, breaking his stare with Harry and spotting Professor McGonagall.

“Professor! Professor McGonagall! How nice to see you again… Fir, nine-and-a-half inches, rather stiff, correct?”

“Indeed,” said Professor McGonagall.

“Good wand, that one. Suited for Transfiguration… fitting, no, now that you’re the Transfiguration professor?”

“Correct again,” smiled Professor McGonagall. “Who would’ve known?”

“The _wand_ would’ve known, Minerva,” said Mr. Ollivander, giving her a piercing look. “Well, now – Mr. Potter-Dursley-Evans. Let me see.” He pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. “Which is your wand arm?”

“Well. I’m ambidextrous, but if I really had to pick-” started Harry.

“Hold out your right arm. That’s it.” He measures Harry from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and round his head. As he measured, he said, “Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard’s wand… although I haven’t tried one of those _American_ ones…”

Harry realized that the tape measure, which was measuring between his nostrils, was doing this on its own. Mr. Ollivander was flitting around the shelves, taking down boxes.

“That will do,” he said, and the tape measure crumpled into a heap on the floor. “Right then, Mr. Potter-Dursley-Evans. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave.

Harry took the wand and tried to copy what Professor McGonagall did at home, but Mr. Ollivander snatched it out of his hand almost at once.

“Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try – ”

Harry tried – but he hardly raised the wand when it, too, was snatched back by Mr. Ollivander.

“No, no – here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on. Try it out.”

Harry tried. And tried. He had no idea what Mr. Ollivander was waiting for. The pile of tried wands was mounting higher and higher on the spindly chair Aunt Petunia was sitting on a while ago, but the more wands Mr. Ollivander pulled from the shelves, the happier he seemed to become.

“Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we’ll find the perfect match here somewhere – I wonder, now – yes, why not – unusual combination – holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.”

Harry took the wand. He felt a sudden warmth in his fingers. He raised the wand above his head, brought it swishing down through the dusty air and a stream of red and gold sparks shot from the end like a firework, throwing dancing spots of light on to the walls. Uncle Vernon whopped and clapped and Mr. Ollivander cried, “Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well… how curious… how very curious…”

He put Harry’s wand back into its box and wrapped it in brown paper, still muttering, “Curious… curious…”

“Excuse me,” said Harry, “but _what’s_ curious?”

Mr. Ollivander fixed Harry with his pale stare.

“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand gave another feather – just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother – why, its brother gave you that scar.”

Harry swallowed.

“Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember… I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter-Dursley-Evans… After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things – terrible, yes, but great.

“I’ll make my own destiny, thanks,” replied Harry, smiling smugly at Mr. Ollivander’s surprised expression. “And after all, it’s what I _do _with the wand that defines me, not the wand itself, no?” Harry dropped seven gold Galleons into Mr. Ollivander’s hand, whose jaw was open, and promptly left the shop.

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky as Harry, Professor McGonagall, Aunt Petunia, and Uncle Vernon made their way back down Diagon Alley, back through the wall, back through the Leaky Cauldron, now empty. None of them spoke at all as they walked down the road; they didn’t even notice how many people were gawking at them on the Underground, laden as they were with all their funny-shaped packages, with Mr. Ollivander’s box heavy on Harry’s lap. Up another escalator, out into Paddington station; Harry only realized where they were when Aunt Petunia put her arms on Harry’s shoulders.

“We’ve got time for a bite before the train leaves. Come, now,” she said.

They bought hamburgers – which Professor McGonagall found very strange, indeed – and sat on plastic seats to eat them. Harry kept looking around. Everything looked so strange, somehow.

“You all right, Harry? You’re very quiet,” asked Professor McGonagall.

Harry was sure he could explain – he just wasn’t sure if Professor McGonagall would understand. He chewed his hamburger, trying to find the right words to say.

“Everyone thinks I’m special,” he said at last. “All those people in the Leaky Cauldron, Professor Quirrell, Mr. Ollivander… but not because of what _I’ve _done, not because of _my_ accomplishments. Why do they expect great things? I’m famous, but I’m famous for something I can’t remember doing, famous for something that technically, my _parents_ did. I don’t even know what happened the night my parents died, at least exactly.”

Professor McGonagall leaned across the table. Behind the stern eyeglasses and the starchily-pressed robe she had on, she wore a very kind smile.

“Don’t worry Harry. You’ll make your own name fast enough. Everyone starts at the beginning at Hogwarts – except those who start reading their books in advance, of course. You’ll be just fine. Just be yourself – that’s easy enough. I know it’s hard you’ve been singled out, though, that’s always hard. But you’ll have a great time at Hogwarts – just like I did, studying there, and just like I do _now,_ teaching there.

Professor McGonagall waved goodbye to Harry as he, Aunt Petunia, and Uncle Vernon hopped back on the train that would take them back to One Aspen Avenue, then handed him an envelope.

“Your ticket for Hogwarts,” she said. “September First, King’s Cross Station – it’s all on your ticket. I do hope you don’t have any problems until then… and do try not to blow anything up, hmm? I know you’ll finish those books of yours in less than a week. See you soon, Harry.”

The train pulled out of the station. Harry wanted to watch Professor McGonagall until she was out of sight; he rose in his seat and pressed his nose against the window, but she was there for a second, and then she was not.


	8. Chapter Three - Interlude: Harry's Birthday Party

Harry’s last month-and-a-half with the Dursley-Evanses was very quiet. There was an unspoken divide between Darius and Harry now, to the point where neither of them could stay in the same room. Once, Harry had gone downstairs to the living room to get the schoolbooks he left behind, and he found Darius reading it. Flustered and slightly upset, Darius practically threw the book at Harry and stomped to his room.

And then there was Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. After he’d exhausted their knowledge of Harry’s parents and all things magic, they found they had little to say to him at all. Half nervous, half excited, and 100 percent unsure of what to do, they acted at times as if nothing had changed within the household but sometimes would huddle together and whisper all panicky.

It was not an improvement at all. It was quite depressing, actually.

It was because of these reasons that Harry mostly kept to his room, with his new books for company. He had been reading nonstop late into the night; his school books were very interesting. He read and re-read and re-read each book again until he had written a summary and literary guide on each one – his favorite so far was _A History of Magic_. Every night before he went to sleep, Harry ticked off another day in the mental calendar in his head, counting down to September the first.

It was about a week later when Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia asked Harry to “sit down with us and have a nice little chat,” after he had helped with the washing up after a very quiet breakfast and was about to practice the piano.

“Harry, err- see, there’s a _very _special day coming a week from now…” Uncle Vernon started, wringing his hands together.

“…and we know that _every year_ you _love_ to have your friends come over to celebrate…” Aunt Petunia continued, her eyes darting to and fro.

Harry didn’t understand what they were talking about. One, he wouldn’t be leaving for Hogwarts for _five_ more weeks. Two, this was the first year that he _had_ gotten his Hogwarts letter – and he wasn’t sure if he was even _allowed_ to tell his friends about it. And three-

Oh.

_Oh._

His birthday was a week from now.

His _birthday_.

Not the Hogwarts train from King’s Cross, not the first day he’d be allowed to do magic, but the _actual anniversary of the exact moment he was born._

Well.

“Yes,” Harry said suddenly, looking Uncle Vernon straight in the eyes. “It _is _a _very _special day. And yes-” here Harry stared at Aunt Petunia “-I _do _usually have my friends over to celebrate.”

“But I’ve decided that this year, I will _not_ be having a birthday party.

Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon sat very lifelessly, and very quietly.

“What do you mean you’re not going to have a birthday party?” Aunt Petunia whispered under her breath. “You have one every year.”

“With cake, and candles, and balloons, and gifts, and singing-” Uncle Vernon began murmuring tersely, his normally jovial face scrunching into a frown.

“I just don’t want one this year. That’s it,” replied Harry, standing up from the dining table. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to brush up on my piano,” he continued, walking out of the dining room.

“Oh, and I don’t need a birthday present, either.” 

So, it was decided. Harry was not to have a birthday party. And a week went by, and Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia gave Harry a birthday present anyway, a midnight black Moleskine journal, which he was very happy and grateful to receive, but, as he said, “was too much, really, you didn’t have to-”

And another week went by, which became two, which became three, which became a whole month, until finally, it was August 31, the day before Harry would leave for Hogwarts.

And all of a sudden, for the very first time the whole summer break, Harry was very terrified of the day to come.


	9. Chapter Four, Part One: The Depersonalization of Darius

It was the last day of August when Harry found Darius in his room for the first time in more than a month, holding, in his hands, his Hogwarts train ticket.

“Hello, Harry,” he said simply, still looking at the parchment in his hands.

“Hullo, Darius,” Harry replied, stepping forward slowly.

He honestly found it quite _odd_ that Darius was talking to him again, for no reason whatsoever, apparently, and that he decided to do it the day before Harry was to leave for Hogwarts. He had made numerous attempts to regain contact with his cousin-so-close-to-him-he-might-as-well-have-been-his-brother, but with each passing day since Harry had returned from Diagon Alley, it seemed the divide between the two boys was only growing wider.

So, to find Darius, with his Hogwarts ticket in his hand, in his room, _talking_ to him, the day before _he himself _was to_ leave_ for Hogwarts – it was very unnerving.

“Funny way to get to a _wizards’_ school, the train. Magic carpets have all got punctures, hmm?” Darius said, snapping his head up to bore his eyes into Harry’s.

“I-I don’t know,” said Harry, realizing this for the first time.

“_And_ it says here you take the eleven o’clock train from platform… _nine and three-quarters_.”

Darius was now clenching his fists, practically crumpling the tickets in his hand, contempt strong in his eyes.

“There _is_ no platform nine and three-quarters, Harry,” Darius continued, “And whoever made this – this – _ticket_, this piece of parchment that means absolutely nothing, is barking, howling, mad. You’ll see. You just wait. When Mom and Dad take you to London tomorrow – you’ll see.”

“Darius, please let go of my ticket,” Harry whispered, terrified of his cousin.

“I don’t think I want to, Harry _Potter_,” he spat. “I think I’d rather take this _ticket_ of yours and rip it into shreds!”

“Darius, _please_ let go of my ticket,” Harry begged, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes.

“Or… Or maybe, _I’ll _pretend to be Harry James Potter-Dursley-Evans, and _I’ll _go to this stupid platform nine and three-quarters, and _I’ll_ go to your bloody _magic_ school, huh? What about that, _Potter_?” he scorned.

“Darius, let go of my ticket!” Harry growled, his terror replaced by rage. This was _his_ and _his alone._

“I don’t think I want to!”

“Let. Go!”

“NO!”

What happened next was unexplainable to both boys. All they could remember was a blinding flash of green light, Darius stepping forward, and a sudden _crrRRAAAKKKK!_ The floor right in front of Darius has split into two, the oak paneling exploding with splinters and wood chips in the air. Harry and Darius stood on opposite sides of a literal abyss, One Aspen Avenue’s pipes and electrical wiring exposed in between the layer of the floor that came before the ceiling; sparks were flying, water was gushing out of one of the pipes. Harry stood on one side in front of Darius’ bed while Darius stood on the other in front of Harry’s, and neither of them could move or make a sound until Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had rushed up the stairs and seized them both, worried beyond measure for the safety of the two.

After the water and electricity was turned off in the boys’ room – and in the room below it, as well – and after both Harry and Darius had calmed down considerably, Darius walked over to Harry in the living room.

“I’m sorry for making you mad,” Darius said.

“Er- yeah. I accept your apology,” Harry replied, looking down.

Darius began to walk away until he heard Harry say:

“Darius?”

Darius whipped around so fast he swore he heard his neck crack.

“Yes, Harry?”

“Can I have my ticket back?”

“Oh. Sure. Of course. Here,” Darius said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the crumpled, now torn, ticket.

“Thanks.”


	10. Chapter Four, Part Two: The Departure From Platform Nine And Three-Quarters

Harry almost didn’t want to go to Hogwarts after what had happened with him and Darius – but as he said to Draco in Diagon Alley, he was not about to “give up his spot at one of the best wizarding schools in Europe.”

He woke up at five o’clock on September first and was too excited and nervous to go back to sleep. He got up and pulled on his Levis because he didn’t want to walk into the station in his wizard’s robes – he’d change on the train. He checked his Hogwarts list yet again to make sure he had everything he needed and packed a few Muggle classics – Dracula, Pride and Prejudice, Moby Dick, Huckleberry Finn, Catcher in The Rye, and the like. He also made sure to pack a few textbooks, too – some GCSE books in English, Maths, Science, French, and History, alongside his Suzuki Piano School Book 7 – he didn’t know if Hogwarts had the same Muggle subjects that he was already taking. Of course, he made sure to pack his camera, tons of film, his _Polaroid_ camera, tons of _instant_ film, a miniature set of acrylic paints and watercolours, paintbrushes and sketchpads, a set of coloured pencils, and lots and lots of graphite pencils.

Harry paced the room when he had finished packing, waiting for the Dursley-Evans to get up. One hour later, Harry helped Uncle Vernon lug his huge, heavy trunk down the stairs, out of the house, down the street, down an escalator, and finally onto a subway car, and they had set off.

Darius didn’t want to come with them to say goodbye.

They reached King’s Cross at half-past nine. Uncle Vernon put Harry’s trunk onto a car and wheeled it into the station for him.

“Well, here we are boy. Platform nine – platform ten. But where on earth is platform nine and three quarters?”

He was quite right, of course. There was a big plastic number nine over one platform and a big plastic number ten over the one next to it, and in the middle, nothing at all. Harry’s mouth went rather dry. What on earth was he going to do?

Aunt Petunia cleared her throat. “I know where it is. But I shan’t tell you, I don’t want to ruin the surprise,” she smiled.

Uncle Vernon stopped a passing guard but didn’t dare mention platform nine and three-quarters. The guard had never heard of Hogwarts and when any of them couldn’t even tell him what part of the country it was in, he started to get annoyed, as though the Dursley-Evans were being stupid on purpose. Getting desperate, Harry asked for the train that left at eleven o’clock, but the guard said there wasn’t one. In the end, the guard strode away, muttering about time-wasters. Harry was trying hard not to panic. According to the large clock over the arrivals board, he had ten minutes left until the “Trolley Tutorial” – whatever that was; but if he missed it, he would _“have to be Obliviated and expelled before the term has even started” – _and while he didn’t know what _Obliviated_ meant, he certainly didn’t want to be expelled. He was in the middle of the station with a trunk he could hardly lift, a pocket full of wizard money, and absolutely _no idea _where to go.

Professor McGonagall must have forgotten to tell him something you had to do, like tapping the third brick on the left to get into Diagon Alley. He wondered if he should get out his wand and start tapping the ticket inspector’s stand between platforms nine and ten. He sat down on a bench next to a tabby cat. “Aunt Petunia, will you just _tell me _already?”

“No, Harry. The most important part of learning is to learn how to learn.”

At that moment a group of three had passed just behind them and he caught what one of them was saying.

“Excuse me, but do you know where platform nine and three-quarters is?”

Harry swung around. The speaker was a girl with lots of bushy brown hair and rather large front teeth. She had a trunk like Harry’s in front of her while talking to the guard they had approached earlier.

“Oi! Another one of you time wasters! Hurry up and scram!” the guard yelled, spittle at the corner of his mouth.

“Well, I’m _sorry_,” the girl said, in a bossy sort of voice, “but I’m just trying to catch my train! Good day to you sir!”

The girl huffed away, pushing her trunk until she went up to a woman with dark brown hair, green eyes, and pale skin. She was wearing a black pencil skirt and a navy-blue blouse and was standing next to a man who was only slightly taller than him.

Harry hurried over to the taken aback trio and asked, “Excusemebutdidyoujustsayplatformnineandthreequarters?” The girl peered at Harry, blowing a few her brown curls out of her face. She made a face that seemed to say, _And who might _you_ be?_ And responded, “Well, firstly, it’s very _rude_ to speak to someone so very quickly, and secondly, even if I _was_, I wouldn’t tell someone so rude as yourself! And one last thing, how do you know about that? Isn’t that a secret? Is this a joke? Are you trying to trick me?” the girl was now very close to Harry, almost to the point that she was invading his personal space.

Harry took a step back and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“I’m terribly sorry about that, Ms…”

“Granger. Hermione Granger.”

“Yes. Well, Ms. Granger, again, I’m terribly sorry for my… misdemeanor. I promise it won’t happen again. And as for the joking and the tricking, I am happy to inform you that I am _not,_ in fact, trying to vex and hex such a lovely girl as yourself” – and here Hermione blushed – “and I think that we actually find ourselves in the same boat.”

Like most people encountering Harry James Potter-Dursley-Evans for the first time, Hermione was shocked. Even if she herself had not yet been made aware of the identity of the articulate 11-year old in front of her, she certainly hadn’t been expecting such a coherent, well-thought-out answer from _anyone, _let alone someone she called _rude_ just a minute ago. And as for the vexing and hexing… well, she doubted that he _actually_ knew how to do that. She did, though. Or at least, she would. In Hogwarts. If she could just find that stupid Platform Nine and Three-Quarters!

Hermione cleared her throat and looked Harry top to bottom. “Well, I apologize as well for being so quick-tempered,” she replied. “And as for being in the same boat, well” – and here she bent down and whispered – “are you going to Hogwarts, too?”

“Yes!” Harry whisper-shouted back, eyes alight with excitement. He began shaking Hermione’s hand very furiously while saying, “Maybe we can help each other! I’m Harry James-Potter-Dursley-Evans, but you can call me Harry.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Are you really? I’ve read all about you, of course – I got a few extra books for background reading, and you’re in _Modern Magical History _and _The Rise and Fall of The Dark Arts _and _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century_. Although in those books they just called you Harry Potter.”

Harry’s smile fell. “Unfortunately, I’ve read about myself as well. But if you don’t mind, Ms. Granger, I’d rather you get to know me based on my own accomplishments and achievements rather than that of my parents,” he said through slightly gritted teeth.

“Oh, goodness, I’m terribly sorry!” Hermione replied. “It’s just that – I’d have found out everything I could if it was me, you know?”

Harry _did_ know. But after a while, hearing about his “heroic acts” got 1. Boring, 2. Repetitive, 3. Uninspiring, and 4. Narcissistic. He didn’t want to be one of those self-absorbed freaks who would care about nothing else but themselves.

“I understand. But all of that won’t matter… if we miss this train!” Harry cried out in frustration.

“And miss it you won’t,” said a voice behind them.

Harry and Hermione whipped around to see a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses. She had black hair that was drawn into a tight bun.

“Professor McGonagall!” Harry and Hermione blurted out at the same time.

“Yes, hello Harry. Hello Hermione. It appears that you two are early for the Trolley Tutorial. There’s one other Muggleborn that should arrive soon.”

“Wait a minute,” Harry said, indignant. “_You _were the tabby cat on the bench I was sitting on. You were watching us this whole time!”

Professor McGonagall laughed. “Yes, and it appears that you two had quite the argument. I’m glad to see it’s been resolved, however. And hello to the parents as well, Vernon, Petunia, Mr. and Mrs. Granger,” Professor McGonagall said to the foursome approaching the two children.

“Hullo, Minerva,” said Aunt Petunia. “It’s been thirteen years since the last time I’ve been to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters,” she continued, looking off into the distance. “And even though I’m not supposed to – I’m so excited to see it again!”

“It’s going to be my first time,” said Uncle Vernon animatedly. “Petunia’s told me all about it, the train, and everything, but not how to get there, and oh I’m terribly sorry, I’m Vernon Dursley-Evans and this is my wife Petunia Dursley-Evans, and this is our nephew Harry James Potter-Dursley-Evans, how do you do?” He said all of this very quickly while looking back and forth at Professor McGonagall and the couple behind Hermione – whom he assumed to be her parents.

“Er – uhm, yes. I’m Ian, and this Jean,” the man said, extending his hand to shake Uncle Vernon’s. “We’re very excited as well, we’ve no idea how all of this came to be.”

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia shook hands with Ian and Jean Granger. They were all making introductions when suddenly…

“Professor McGonagall? Is that you? Are we in the right place? Where _on earth _is Platform Nine and Three-Quarters?”

A very posh woman had suddenly approached the group. She was dressed head-to-toe in a matching Burberry skirt and jacket and carried with her a black Birkin bag. She smelled strongly of Chanel No. 5, almost to the point that it was sickening to one’s olfactory palate. With her was a similarly posh-looking boy about Harry’s age, with curly hair, dressed rather stupidly in a three-piece suit.

Professor McGonagall sighed before putting on a tired smile. “Hello, Mrs. Finch-Fletchley. Not to worry, you are in the correct place. And you’re just on time.”

“Well, I do sure hope so. We left the _mansion_ at such an_ impossibly_ early time, and I was stuck in a _tizzy_ choosing between the Benz and the Peugeot,” Mrs. Finch-Fletchley sniffed.

Harry and Hermione gave each other a look. They knew _exactly_ what kind of people the Finch-Fletchleys were, then.

“Justin are you _sure_ you want to go to this _wizarding_ school?” Mrs. Finch-Fletchley moaned, bending down to look her son in the eye. “We can still get your slot at _Westminster_, you know.”

Harry flinched at the mention of his cousin’s new school – and the memories that came along with it – and stepped forward to shake the hand of the boy – Justin.

“Hello, Justin. I’m Harry James Potter-Dursley-Evans, and this is Hermione Granger. Aren’t you excited to learn about things even _money _can’t buy?” he said, leaning slightly towards Mrs. Finch-Fletchley.

“Yes, I am,” he replied, looking up at his mother. “Lord knows the advantages of having a trained wizard in the family.”

Mrs. Finch-Fletchley huffed a bit but didn’t say anything after that.

“Well then. Now that we’re all here, I do believe we can begin with The Trolley Tutorial,” Professor McGonagall smiled. “Harry, seeing as you were the earliest, I do think you should be first. All you must do is walk straight at the barrier between platforms nine and ten. Don’t stop and don’t be scared you’ll crash into it, that’s very important. Best do it at a bit of a run if you’re nervous. Go on, go now with your aunt and uncle.”

“But Professor McGonagall, that’s crazy!” Hermione wailed.

“It’s not crazy, Hermione – it’s magic,” said Harry.

He pushed his trolley around and stared at the barrier. It looked very solid.

He started to walk toward it. People jostled him on their way to platforms nine and ten. Harry walked more quickly. He was going to smash right into that barrier and make a fool of himself – leaning forward on his cart, he broke into a heavy run – the barrier was coming nearer and nearer – he wouldn’t be able to stop – the cart was out of control – he was a foot away – but he needed to have faith – still, he closed his eyes, ready for the crash –

It didn’t come… he kept on running… he opened his eyes.

A scarlet steam engine was waiting next to a platform packed with people. A sign overhead said _Hogwarts Express, eleven o’clock_. Harry looked behind him and saw a wrought-iron archway where the barrier had been, with the words _Platform Nine and Three-Quarters_ on it. He had done it. But of course, _he_ could have done it.

Smoke from the engine drifted over the heads of the chattering crowd, which cats of every color wound here and there between their legs. Owls hooted to one another in a disgruntled sort of way over the babble and the scraping of heavy trunks.

Suddenly, he heard a very familiar sound – the sound of his aunt and uncle’s laughter. Looking behind him, he saw his Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia chuckling as they took in Platform Nine and Three-Quarters too, having just gone through the wall as well. Not so long after came Hermione and her parents too, also in shock, and later, a displeased-looking Mrs. Finch-Fletchley with an awestruck Justin Finch-Fletchley.

Professor McGonagall appeared _out of thin air_ not too long after, smiling at the faces of the Muggleborns and their respective guardians. “Wasn’t too hard, was it?” she asked. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some pre-start of term business to attend to. I trust that all of you can find your way to a carriage?”

Harry, Hermione, and Justin nodded slowly, still taking in the sights and smells around them.

“And parents, when you’re done saying goodbye, it’s the same way back through that archway – remember, walk straight through the archway, don’t stop, and don’t be scared. Otherwise, you’ll just end up… on the other side of the archway.”

Mrs. Finch-Fletchley fussed around Justin as Hermione began looking for a carriage with her parents.

The first few carriages were already packed with students, some hanging out of the window to talk to their families, some fighting over seats. Harry pushed his cart off down the platform in search of an empty seat. He passed a round-faced boy who was saying, “Gran, I’ve lost my toad again.”

“Oh _Neville_,” he heard the old woman sigh.

A boy with dreadlocks was surrounded by a small crowd.

“Give us a look, Lee, go on.”

The boy lifted the lid of a box in his arms, and the people around him shrieked and yelled as something inside poked out a long, hairy leg.

Harry, Uncle Vernon, and Aunt Petunia pressed on through the crowd until he found an empty compartment near the end of the train. He started to shove and heave his trunk toward the train door, lifting it up the steps, but could hardly raise one end and almost dropped it painfully on his foot.

Uncle Vernon was about to step in when suddenly a voice said – “Want a hand?”

The voice came from a stocky boy, with flaming red hair.

“Sure,” Harry panted.

“Oy, Fred! C’mere and help!”

Another boy who looked exactly like the first one came over. With the twins’ help, Harry’s trunk was at last tucked away in a corner of the compartment.

“Thanks,” said Harry, pushing his sweaty hair out of his eyes.

“What’s that?” said one of the twins suddenly, pointing at Harry’s lightning scar.

_Here we go again, _thought Harry.

“Blimey,” said the other twin. “Are you -?”

“He _is_,” said the first twin. “Aren’t you?” he added to Harry.

“Yes,” replied Harry.

“_Harry Potter,” _chorused the twins.

“It’s Harry Potter-_Dursley-Evans_, thank you very much,” said Harry. “But yes. That’s me.”

The two boys gawked at him, and Harry almost wanted to glare at them, a little bit. Then, to his relief, a voice came floating through the crowd on the platform.

“Fred? George? Are you there?”

“Coming, Mum.”

With a last look at Harry, the twins hopped to their mum.

Harry watched the red-haired family from a small distance as Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon began taking pictures of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Their mother had just taken out her handkerchief.

“Ron, you’ve got something on your nose.”

The youngest boy tried to jerk off out of the way, but she grabbed him and began rubbing the end of his nose.

“_Mum_ – geroff.” He wiggled free.

“_Aaah_, has ickle Ronnie got _somefink_ on his _nosie_?” said one of the twins.

“Shut up,” said Ron.

“Where’s Percy?” said their mother.

“He’s coming now.”

The oldest boy of the family came striding into sight. He had already changed into his billowing black Hogwarts robes, and Harry noticed a shiny red-and-gold badge on his chest with the letter _P_ on it.

“Can’t stay long, Mother,” he said. “I’m up front, the prefects have got two compartments to themselves –”

“Oh, are you a _prefect_, Percy?” said one of the twins, with an air of great surprise. “You should have said something, we had no idea.”

“Hang on, I think I remembered him saying something about it,” said the other twin. “Once –”

“Or twice –”

“A minute –”

“All summer –”

“Oh, shut up,” said Percy the Prefect.

“How come Percy gets new robes, anyway?” said one of the twins.

“Because he’s a _prefect_,” said their mother fondly. “All right, dear, well, have a good term – send me an owl when you get there.”

She kissed Percy on the cheek and he left. Then she turned to the twins.

“Now, you two – this year, you behave yourselves. If I get one more owl telling me you’ve – you’ve blown up a toilet or –”

“Blown up a toilet? We’ve never blown up a toilet.”

“Great idea though, thanks, Mum.”

“It’s _not funny_. And look after Ron.”

“Don’t worry_, ickle Ronniekins_ is safe with us.”

“Shut up,” said Ron again. He was almost as tall as the twins already and his nose was still pink where his mother had rubbed it.

“Hey, Mum, guess what? Guess who we just met on the train?”

_Oh, God_, Harry thought to himself.

“You know that black-haired boy, the one talking to Professor McGonagall? Know who he is?”

“Who?”

“_Harry Potter!”_

Harry heard the little girl’s voice.

“Oh, Mum, can I go on the train and see him, Mum, oh please…”

“You’ve already seen him, Ginny, and the poor boy isn’t something you goggle at in a zoo.”

_That’s right!_ thought Harry.

“Is he really, Fred? How do you know?”

“Asked him. Saw his scar. It’s really there – like lightning.”

“Poor _dear_ – though he wasn’t alone, I wondered why. _I _heard he’s been living with Muggles his whole life.”

_Not that it makes a difference, though, _Harry sighed internally.

“Never mind that, do you think he remembers what You-Know-Who looks like?’

Their mother suddenly became very stern.

“I forbid you to ask him, Fred. No, don’t you dare. As though he needs reminding of that on his first day at school.”

“All right, keep your hair on.”

Harry decided against approaching the red-haired family – it wasn’t worth his time. He could always talk to the boys, later.

Uncle Vernon took one last picture of Aunt Petunia against the scarlet steam engine and then turned to Harry.

“Well, Harry – this is it. Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. We’re to send you off, now,” Uncle Vernon said, misty-eyed.

“Oh, come off it, Uncle Vernon. It’s not like I’m going to be gone _forever_. I’ll be back for Christmas, after all,” Harry replied.

“We’re going to miss you very much,” said Aunt Petunia, pulling Harry into a hug. “Very, very, much.”

“And I’m sure Darius will miss you as well, once he cools off,” says Uncle Vernon, joining the hug.

“Maybe,” Harry mumbled.

“Come on, Harry. Cheer up. Let’s take a picture.”

Harry took out his Polaroid and held the camera at an arm’s length as he posed with his Aunt and Uncle.

“Say, Hogwarts!”

A whistle sounded as the flash lit up.

A voice said, “Hurry up!” and the three red-haired boys from earlier clambered onto the train. They leaned out of the window for her to kiss them good-bye, and their youngest sister began to cry.

“Don’t, Ginny, we’ll send you loads of owls.”

“We’ll send you a Hogwarts toilet seat.”

“_George!”_

“Only joking, Mum.”

Harry got onto the train as well, into the compartment where his trunk was. He waved goodbye to his Aunt and Uncle, and soon, the train began to move. Harry saw them half laughing, half crying, running to keep up with the train until it gathered too much speed, then they fell back and waved. He watched as his Aunt and Uncle disappear as the train rounded the corner. Houses flashed past the window. Harry felt a great leap of excitement. He didn’t know what he was going to – he was not sure of what was to come next and was even more unsure of what to do, but he knew that he had to hold steadfast in his morals and in his ideologies. Harry James Potter-Dursley-Evans was about to go away for a very, very, long time, and his family – for though his parents were gone, he still had a family – would miss him very, very much.


	11. Chapter Four, Part Three: The Hogwarts Express

The door of Harry’s compartment slid open and the youngest red-headed boy came in.

“Anyone sitting there?” he asked, pointing at the seat opposite Harry. “Everywhere else is full.”

“Really? _Everywhere_ else…?”

The red-headed boy blushed furiously and began to make a quick escape. “S-sorry… I didn’t – I mean I should’ve –”

“No! It’s okay. You can sit here. If you want,” said Harry quickly, keeping the door open. The boy sat down. He glanced at Harry and then looked quickly out of the window, pretending he hadn’t looked. Harry saw he still had a black mark on his nose.

“Hey, Ron.”

The twins were back.

“Listen, we’re going down the middle of the train – Lee Jordan’s got a giant tarantula down there.”

“Right,” mumbled Ron.

“Harry,” said the other twin, “did we introduce ourselves? Fred and George Weasley. And this is Ron, our brother. See you later, then.”

“Bye,” said Harry and Ron. The twins slid the compartment door shut behind them.

“Are you really Harry Potter?” Ron blurted out.

“Uhm, _rude_,” Harry replied, looking out of the window with disdain. _Shouldn’t have let him sit here…_ thought Harry.

“Oh, I uh – I’m sorry. I just – well, I thought it might be one of Fred and George’s jokes,” said Ron.

There was an awkward silence in the compartment.

“Sorry, but I really _am_ so ever curious, but have you really got – you know…”

He pointed at Harry’s forehead.

Harry sighed. The term hadn’t even started, and he already had to deal with _this_ nonsense. He pulled back his bangs, quite irritated, to show the lightning scar. Ron stared. Harry stared back until Ron flushed and looked away.

“So that’s where You-Know-Who -?”

“Yes, Ron, that’s where Voldemort tried to _kill me_, as an infant,” interrupted Harry. “but _obviously, _I can’t remember any of it.”

“Nothing?” Ron asked, timidly.

“Well, there was a lot of green light, if you _have_ to know, but nothing else.”

“Oh. Okay…” said Ron. He sat and stared at Harry from the corner of his eye for a few moments, then, as soon as Harry stared back, looked quickly out of the window again.

Harry sighed internally. This simply _wouldn’t do_. _Lots _of people were going to ask questions, and a _ton_ of them weren’t going to be as _polite_ as Ron. Whether he liked it or not, he would have to get used to all this unwanted fame and popularity.

“Look – sorry if I came off as… discourteous. I never meant to be… mean, I guess. It’s just that, I’ve come into this world where everyone knows my name, and for once, it’s for something that _I _didn’t do – or at least, it’s for something I did as an _infant_, of all things. I mean, I want to be known for _my_ accomplishments, you know, not something that happened more than a decade ago.”

Harry looked at Ron and smiled. In the end, it was better to catch flies with honey rather than vinegar, and it was better to make friends than enemies.

“Yeah, I kinda… I kinda get that,” Ron started. “With me having five brothers and all. I’m the sixth in our family to go to Hogwarts. You could say I’ve got a lot to live up to. Bill and Charlie have already left – Bill was head boy and Charlie was captain of Quidditch. Now Percy’s a prefect. Fred and George mess around a lot, but they still get really good marks, and everyone thinks they’re really funny. Everyone expects me to do as well as the others, but if I do, it’s no big deal, because they did it first.”

“Let’s start over,” Harry replied. “I’m Harry James Potter-Dursley-Evans,” he said, reaching out his hand.

“Ron. Ron Weasley,” Ron said, smiling as he shook Harry’s hand.

“Are all your family wizards?” asked Harry, who found Ron just as interesting as Ron found him and felt more comfortable talking to him now that he had let everything out.

“Er – yes, I think so,” said Ron. “I think Mum’s got a second cousin who’s an accountant, but we never talk about him.”

“So, you must know loads of magic already,” Harry said, slightly gloomy. He was going to be _behind. _The Weasleys clearly must have been one of those old wizarding families the pale boy in Diagon Alley – Draco – had talked about.

“I heard you went to live with Muggles,” said Ron. “What are they like?”

“They’re great – well, not all of them. My aunt and uncle and cousin are, though. Still… sometimes I wish _I_ had a few wizard brothers.”

“Huh. I’ve got a lot to live up to, though… As I said, everyone expects me to do as well as the others, but if I do, it’s no big deal, because they did it first. You never get anything new, either, with five brothers. I’ve got Bill’s old robes, Charlie’s old wand, and Percy’s old rat.”

Ron reached inside his jacket and pulled out a fat grey rat, which was asleep.

“His name’s Scabbers and he’s useless, he hardly ever wakes up. Percy got an owl from my dad for being made a prefect, but they couldn’t aff – I mean, I got Scabbers instead.”

Ron’s ears went pink. He seemed to think he’d said too much because he went back to staring out of the window.

Harry didn’t think there was anything wrong with not being able to afford an owl – and why would you need one, anyway, when Hogwarts had theirs for use – and after all, he himself came from a family of modest people who budgeted everything, and he told Ron so, all about Muggle couponing and always buying things on sale. This seemed to cheer Ron up.

“… and I didn’t believe my Uncle Vernon until Professor McGonagall told me, and I didn’t believe anything about being a wizard or about my parents or Voldemort –”

Ron gasped.

“What?” said Harry.

_“You said You-Know-Who’s name!”_ said Ron, sounding both shocked and impressed. “I’d have thought you, of all people –”

“Well, I’m not trying to be _brave_ or anything, saying the name,” said Harry, “and I _know_, I _know_, ‘_names hold power,’ _they say, but…” Harry sighed. “I just want to get over it, you know?”

Ron nodded. Harry smiled. He was glad to have someone understand what he was going through.

While they had been talking, the train had carried them out of London. Now they were speeding past fields full of cows and sheep. They were quiet for a time, watching the fields and lanes flick past.

Around half-past twelve, there was a great clattering outside in the corridor and a smiling, dimpled woman slid back their door and said, “Anything off the cart, dears?”

Harry, who had been so nervous that morning he hadn’t had any breakfast, leaped to his feet, but Ron’s ears went pink again and he murmured that he’d brought sandwiches. Harry went out into the corridor.

Harry was planning to buy as many not-unhealthy snacks as he could carry, and maybe a Mars Bar – but the woman didn’t have Mars Bars. What she did have were Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum, Chocolate Frogs, Pumpkin Pasties, Cauldron Cakes, Liquorice Wands, and a number of strange things Harry had never seen in his life. His eyes widened. The Dursley-Evans family had a rule about strange food – always try one of everything, and always get more of what was good. Not wanting to break tradition, Harry got at least one of everything and paid the woman eleven silver Sickles and seven bronze Knuts.

Ron stared as Harry brought it all back into the compartment and tipped it onto an empty seat.

“Hungry, are you?”

“Well – yes,” muffled Harry, as he took a large bite out of a pumpkin pasty. “But also, in my family, it’s tradition to try weird food _at least once_ whenever we see it, no matter how bizarre.”

Ron had taken out a lumpy package and unwrapped it. There were four sandwiches inside. He pulled one of them apart and said, “She always forgets I don’t like corned beef.”

“Swap you one of these,” said Harry, holding up a pasty. “I need some _actual_ foo-”

“You don’t want this, it’s all dry.” Said Ron. She hasn’t got much time,” he added quickly, “you know, with five of us.”

“I don’t care if it’s dry – go on, have a pasty anyway if you don’t want to give me the sandwich,” said Harry. Ron’s ears turned pink again and he gave Harry two of his sandwiches as Harry dumped four pasties into his lap. It was a nice feeling, sitting there with Ron, eating their way through all Harry’s pasties, cakes, and candies – and Harry quite enjoyed Ron’s sandwiches as well.

“What are these?” Harry asked Ron, holding up a pack of Chocolate Frogs. The box began to shake in his hands. “What the-” he began to say as he began to open it.

A _ribbit_ resounded, reverberating through the compartment. Harry looked inside the box to see a small frog jumping and leaping around wildly. Scared out of his mind, he quickly picked it up and bit half of it off.

The frog stopped squirming.

“Was that thing… alive?” asked Harry, teeth stained with Chocolate Frog.

“Who knows?” replied Ron to a horrified Harry. “But see what the card is. I’m missing Agrippa.”

“What?”

“Oh, of course, you wouldn’t know – Chocolate Frogs have cards inside them, you know, to collect – famous witches and wizards. I’ve got about five hundred, but I haven’t got Agrippa or Ptolemy.”

Harry finished the lower half of his Chocolate Frog and picked up the card. It showed a man’s face. He wore half-moon glasses, had a long, crooked nose, and flowing silver hair, beard, and mustache. Underneath the picture was the name Albus Dumbledore.

“The man Aunt Petunia spied on from the rose bushes…” Harry whispered to himself.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. Who’d you get – Dumbledore? Can I have a frog? I might get Agrippa – thanks –”

Harry turned over his card and read:

  
ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

CURRENTLY HEADMASTER OF HOGWARTS

Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the Dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicholas Flamel. Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and tenpin bowling.

Harry turned the card over and saw, to his astonishment, that Dumbledore’s face had disappeared.

“He’s gone!”

“Well, you can’t expect him to hang around all day,” said Ron. “He’ll be back. No, I’ve got Morgana again and I’ve got about six of her… do you want it? You can start collecting.”

Ron’s eyes strayed to the pile of Chocolate Frogs waiting to be unwrapped.

“Help yourself,” said Harry. “But in, you know, the Muggle world, people just stay put in photos.”

“Do they? What, they don’t move at all?” Ron sounded amazed. _“Weird!”_

“Here, I’ll show you.”

Harry dug around in his leather messenger bag until he pulled out his Polaroid camera. He turned it on, and before Ron could say anything, a _Snap!_ Sounded in the compartment. A sheet of white plastic went _shhhhhhhhttt _out of a slit in the top of the camera and slid onto Harry’s hand.

“Now we wait.”

Harry stared as Dumbledore sidled back into the picture on his card and gave him a small smile. Ron stared at the white sheet of plastic as colours and shapes began to form. “Wha- What’s happening? Did you print it _now_? How is that possible?”

Harry smiled at Ron. “Well, the picture doesn’t move, but I did some _Muggle _Magic, and here you are,” said Harry, showing Ron a picture of him with a mouth full of Chocolate Frog.

“Here, you can keep it,” said Harry.

“Thanks mate!”

Ron gently put the Polaroid in his pocket, then went back to eating more Chocolate Frogs. It seemed that Ron was more interested in eating them than looking at the Famous Witches and Wizards cards, but Harry couldn’t keep his eyes off them. Soon he had not only Dumbledore and Morgana, but Hengist of Woodcroft, Alberic Grunnion, Circe, Paracelsus, and Merlin. He finally tore his eyes away from the druidess Cliodna, who was scratching her nose, to open a bag of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans.

“You want to be careful with those,” Ron warned Harry. “When they say every flavour, they _mean_ every flavour – you know, you get all the ordinary ones like chocolate and peppermint and marmalade, but then you get spinach and liver and tripe. George reckons he had a booger-flavoured one once.”

Ron picked up a green bean, looked at it carefully, and bit into a corner.

“Bleaaargh – see? Sprouts.”

They had a good time eating Every Flavour Beans. Harry got toast, coconut, baked bean, strawberry, curry, grass, coffee, sardine, and was even brave enough to nibble the end off a funny grey one Ron wouldn’t touch, which tuned out to be pepper.

The countryside now flying past the window was becoming wilder. The neat fields had gone. Now there were woods, twisting rivers, and dark green hills.

There was a knock on the door of their compartment and the round-faced boy Harry passed on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters came in. He looked tearful.

“Sorry,” he said, “but have you seen a toad at all?”

When they shook their heads, he wailed, “I’ve lost him! He keeps getting away from me!”

“He’ll turn up,” said Harry.

“Yes,” said the boy miserably. “Well, if you see him…”

He left.

“Don’t know why he’s so bothered,” said Ron. “If I’d brought a toad, I’d lose it quickly as I could. Mind you, I brought Scabbers, so I can’t talk.”

The rat was still snoozing on Ron’s lap.

“He might’ve died, and you wouldn’t know the difference,” said Ron in disgust. “I tried to turn him yellow yesterday to make him more interesting, but the spell didn’t work. I’ll show you, look…”

He rummaged around in his trunk and pulled out a very battered-looking wand. It was chipped in places and something white was glinting at the end.

“Unicorn hair’s nearly poking out. Anyway – ”

He had just raised his wand when the compartment door slid open again. The toadless boy was back, but this time, he had a girl with him. She was already wearing her new Hogwarts robes.

“Has anyone seen a toad? Neville’s lost one,” she said. She had a bossy sort of voice, lots of bushy brown hair, and rather large front teeth

“Hi Hermione,” Harry said, looking at her. “We’ve already told him we haven’t seen it,” he continued. Hermione wasn’t listening at Harry anymore, though, or even looking at him, she was looking at Ron instead, or rather at the wand in his hand.

“Oh, are you doing magic? Let’s see it, then.”

She sat down. Ron looked taken aback.

“Er – all right.”

He cleared his throat.

_“Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow,_

_Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow.”_

He waved his wand, but nothing happened. Scabbers stayed grey and fast asleep.

“Are you sure that’s a real spell?” said Hermione. “Well, it’s not very good, is it? I’ve tried a few simple spells just for practice and it’s all worked for me. Nobody in my family’s magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased of course, I mean, it’s the very best school of witchcraft there is, I’ve heard – I’ve learned all our course books by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough – I’m Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?”

She said all this very fast.

Harry looked at Ron and saw by his stunned face that apparently, it wasn’t normal to learn all the course books by heart.

“I’m Ron Weasley,” Ron muttered.

“And you already know me,” said Harry.

“Er- WHAT?”

“We met each other on the Trolley Tutorial.”

“The Trolley Tutorial? What in Merlin’s name is that?”

“Well, we wouldn’t know how to get on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters because we’re Muggle-borns, no? I mean, I am. Harry is a special case. Right, Harry?” Hermione said all of this a matter-of-factly.

“Yes?” replied Harry amused at Ron’s reaction.

“Anyway, do either of you know what House you’ll be in? I’ve been asking around, and I hope I’m in Gryffindor, it sounds by far the best; I hear Dumbledore himself was in it, but I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn’t be too bad… Well, we’d better go and look for Neville’s toad. You two had better change, you know, I expect we’ll be there soon.”

Hermione reached for the handle of the compartment, but Harry stopped her with his foot.

“What?” she said, irritated, looking back at Harry.

“If you really want to find Neville’s toad… ask the Prefects, they’re in the front. And as for Gryffindor… maybe Ravenclaw would be better for you, Hermione,” Harry said, barely audible. He was staring straight into Hermione’s eyes, almost as if searching through her soul.

Hermione shivered. “Oh… Uh… thank you…”

She left without another word, taking the toadless boy with her.

Ron hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary.

“Whatever House I’m in, I hope she’s not in it,” said Ron. He threw his wand back into his trunk. “Stupid spell – George gave it to me, but he knew it was a dud.”

“What House are your brothers in?” asked Harry.

“Gryffindor,” said Ron. Gloom seemed to be settling on him again. “Mum and Dad were in it, too. I don’t know what they’ll say if I’m not. I don’t’ suppose Ravenclaw _would_ be too bad but imagine if they put me in Slytherin.”

“Why? What’s wrong with Slytherin?” Resourceful, cunning, ambitious, determined, clever, achievement-oriented… it sounded a lot like Harry.

“It’s just that – er – that’s the house You-Know-Who was in.”

“So?”

“So, that means that Slytherins are…. I dunno… bad, I guess…”

“_All_ of them?” asked Harry.

“No! Not like that. It’s just – ugh! I don’t know how to explain it.” Ron flopped back into his seat, looking depressed.

“You know, I think the ends of Scabbers’ whiskers are a bit lighter,” Harry lied, trying to change the topic from Houses. “So, what do your oldest brothers do now that they’ve left, anyway?”

“Charlie’s in Romania studying dragons, and Bill’s in Africa doing something for Gringotts,” said Ron. “Did you hear about Gringotts? It’s been all over the _Daily Prophet, _but I don’t suppose you get that with the Muggles – someone tried to rob a high-security vault.”

“Oh, no, that happens all the time. But go on, what happened to them?”

“Nothing, that’s why it’s such big news. They haven’t been caught. My dad says it must’ve been a powerful Dark wizard to get ‘round Gringotts, but they don’t think they took anything, that's what's odd. 'Course, everyone gets scared when something like this happens in case You-Know-Who's behind it."

Harry turned this news over in his mind. He was starting to get a prickle of annoyance every time this “You-Know-Who” was mentioned. So, what if some murderous villain had massacred tons of wizards back then? It’s not as if he – or Hitler, or Atilla the Hun, for that matter – could come back to life, or anything like that. He supposed this was all part of entering the magical world, but it was a lot more comfortable saying "Voldemort."

"What's your Quidditch team?" Ron asked.

"Mhm. Here’s the thing," Harry started. “I don’t know any.”

"What!" Ron looked dumbfounded. "Oh, you wait, it's the best game in the world–" And he was off, explaining all about the four balls and the positions of the seven players, describing famous games he'd been to with his brothers and the broomstick he'd like to get if he had the money. He was just taking Harry through the finer points of the game when the compartment door slid open yet again, but it wasn't Neville the toadless boy, or Hermione Granger this time.

Three boys entered, and Harry recognized the middle one at once: it was the pale boy from Madam Malkin's robe shop. It was – dare he say – his _friend_, Draco Malfoy.

“Harry!” Draco said brightly, sitting down next to Harry with a _plop_. "They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment. I had to check for myself if it was true.”

"Yes," said Harry. “Want a pumpkin pasty?” Harry offered, looking at the other boys. Both of them were thickset and looked extremely mean. Standing on either side of the entrance to the compartment door, they looked like bodyguards.

"Oh, this is Crabbe, and this is Goyle," said the pale boy carelessly, noticing where Harry was looking."

Ron gave a slight cough, which might have been hiding a snigger. Draco looked at him.

"Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford."

He turned back to Harry. "You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."

“Uh – hey, hey… there’s no need to be rude, Draco…” Harry started uneasily, looking warily at Ron, who was so red it seemed as though steam were about to come out of his ears. “Ron is my friend, too. _Both_ of you are my friends, and _neither_ of you is the wrong sort. I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself.”

Draco didn't go as red as Ron, but a pink tinge appeared in his pale cheeks.

“Fine, Harry," he said slowly. "I’ll play nice. I know what’s good for me – I hope you do too.”

“Well, _I _don’t want to play nice,” said Ron. “Unless _Malfoy _here is a bit politer, he might go the same way as your parents. You hang around with riffraff like him, and it'll rub off on you."

Harry stood up.

"Say that again," Draco said, his face as red as Ron’s hair, now.

"Oh, you're going to fight us, are you?" Ron sneered.

"Ron!" said Harry, more bravely than he felt, because he had just met Ron, and didn’t want to give him a bad impression.

"And you don’t feel very much like leaving, huh? Looks like your _cronies_ here have eaten all their food – and we still have some.”

Harry stifled a laugh. Ron was rude, but he _was_ right.

Draco scowled at Harry, displeased that his friend would side with a _Weasley_ of all people. But… maybe this could be an opportunity, an opportunity to show Harry just _exactly_ how good of a friend he could be…

“Are you trying to say something about my – my _friends_, Ron? That’s not very nice,” Draco started, sounding very sincere and not at all sarcastic. “And here I thought _I _would be the villain of the story… Crabbe, Goyle, let’s go.”

Ron gaped as Draco made a swift exit followed by his “friends,” who were just as confused as Ron.

“Ha. That’ll teach ‘em,” said Ron, taking a seat and opening up another Chocolate Frog.

Harry stared at the ground. “Ron… that really _wasn’t_ very nice, you know…”

Ron looked up from his Chocolate Frog.

“What? But Malfoy’s a git!”

“Malfoy’s my _friend_.”

Ron shut up. There were would have been an awkward silence, but then…

"What has been going on?"

Hermione Granger had come in. She swept her eyes over the sweet wrappers all over the floor and crinkled her nose.

"Anyway, you'd better hurry up and put your robes on, I've just been up to the front to ask the conductor, and he says we're nearly there. And what is with this mess? You'll be in trouble before we even get there!"

"Scabbers has been making this mess, not us," said Ron, scowling at her. "Would you mind leaving while we change?"

"All right – I only came in here because people outside are behaving very childishly, racing up and down the corridors," said Hermione in a sniffy voice. "And you've got dirt on your nose, by the way, did you know?"

Ron glared at her as she left. Harry peered out of the window; he didn’t want to talk to Ron. It was getting dark. He could see mountains and forests under a deep purple sky. The train did seem to be slowing down.

Without making a single sound, he and Ron took off their jackets and pulled on their long black robes. Ron's were a bit short for him, you could see his sneakers underneath them.

A voice echoed through the train: "We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes' time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately."

Harry's stomach lurched with nerves and Ron, he saw, looked pale under his freckles. They crammed their pockets with the last of the sweets – well, Harry did, Ron was too embarrassed to get any – and joined the crowd thronging the corridor.

The train slowed right down and finally stopped. People pushed their way toward the door and out on to a tiny, dark platform. Harry shivered in the cold night air. Then a lamp came bobbing over the heads of the students, and Harry heard a voice that sounded like gravel pouring on stone say: "Firs' years! Firs' years over here!"

A big, hairy face beamed over the sea of heads – well if you could even call it a face. It was almost completely hidden by a long, shaggy mane of hair and a wild, tangled beard, but you could make out his eyes, glinting like black beetles under all the hair.

"C'mon, follow me -- any more firs' years? Mind yer step, now! Firs' years follow me!"

Harry gasped when he saw the man. It wasn’t a man. It was a _giant. _And, if he recalled correctly, it was the giant from his Uncle Vernon’s stories… He was about twice as tall as an average man, towering above the first years, and, exactly like Uncle Vernon said, he had “hands as big as dustbin lids and feet like baby dolphins!”

Slipping and stumbling, they followed the giant down what seemed to be a steep, narrow path. It was so dark on either side of them that Harry thought there must be thick trees there. Nobody spoke much. Neville, the boy who kept losing his toad, sniffed once or twice.

"Ye' all get yer firs' sight o' Hogwarts in a sec," the giant called over his shoulder, "jus' round this bend here."

There was a loud "Oooooh!"

The narrow path had opened suddenly onto the edge of a great black lake. Perched atop a high mountain on the other side, its windows sparkling in the starry sky was a vast castle with many turrets and towers.

"No more'n four to a boat!" the giant called, pointing to a fleet of little boats sitting in the water by the shore. Harry and Ron were followed into their boat by Neville and Hermione. "Everyone in?" shouted the giant, who had a boat to himself. "Right then -- FORWARD!"

And the fleet of little boats moved off all at once, gliding across the lake, which was as smooth as glass. Everyone was silent, staring up at the great castle overhead. It towered over them as they sailed nearer and nearer to the cliff on which it stood.

"Heads down!" yelled the giant as the first boats reached the cliff; they all bent their heads and the little boats carried them through a curtain of ivy that hid a wide opening in the cliff face. They were carried along a dark tunnel, which seemed to be taking them right underneath the castle until they reached a kind of underground harbour, where they clambered out onto rocks and pebbles.

"Oy, you there! Is this your toad?" said the giant, who was checking the boats as people climbed out of them.

"Trevor!" cried Neville blissfully, holding out his hands. Then they clambered up a passageway in the rock after the giant’s lamp, coming out at last onto smooth, damp grass right in the shadow of the castle.

They walked up a flight of stone steps and crowded around the huge, oak front door.

"Everyone here? You there, still got yer toad?"

The giant raised an enormous fist and knocked three times on the castle door.


End file.
